


That's rough, buddy

by confusedTraveler



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Multi, The power of friendship, all of them - Freeform, mspa reader deserves aaaaaaaall the friends, purely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2020-10-28 20:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 53
Words: 149,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedTraveler/pseuds/confusedTraveler
Summary: Set between the ending of Hiveswap Friendsim Volume 18 and the Friendsim Epilogue.MSPA reader's makeshift hive finally gives out. Friendship shenanigans ensue.Updates weekends.





	1. Of Ill-Chosen Names and Ill-Placed Naps

Your name is MSPA READER—or, rather, it will be, someday, when your magical cue ball not-dad finally decides it’s time to pick you up from work. (Specifically, work you never signed up for nor knew you were even doing.)

Not that “MSPA reader” is much of a name in the first place. Hell, it’s barely even a _title_. It’s more like a label for an appliance, so that you’re reminded of whatever it’s _supposed_ to be doing every time you see it lying somewhere around the house. “MSPA reader” is about as tasteful a title as “vacuum cleaner”. Thanks a lot, Doc.

But anyways, that’s all in the future. At this point in your life, you mostly just think of yourself as THE ALIEN. On good days, you like to think that title can be extended to ALTERNIA’S FAVORITE ALIEN. On bad days, the title tends more towards ALTERNIA’S PUNCHING BAG.

Eh, some nights end better than others. It happens.

Speaking of which… what happened to you last night?

You manage to somewhat shake off your weird train of thought concerning nomenclature as you begin to more fully wake up. It takes you a little while to realize your eyes are actually open—all you can see is pitch black. Which is…not something you’re all that acquainted with, actually. Between the steady glow of pink-and-lime moons at night and the hellglare of the sun during the day, _true_ blackness is something you only see when you close your eyes.

Or, like, in the immediate seconds after getting clocked by some thug. Like you said, some nights.

Reality comes rushing in all at once. You are lying on your front on the ground, the side of your face squished against some hard metal surface. Even after blinking rapidly to try to adjust your vision, you can see nothing but blackness. Thankfully, it doesn’t feel as though anything particularly horrific has become of your eyes. Less-thankfully, your _everything_ hurts, even more than usual. Every inch of you is stinging like you’d spent the night in a nest of Alternian killipedes.

You manage to get your arms under you and start to slowly push yourself up, when- _clang!_ The back of your head comes suddenly into contact with an unforgivingly hard surface. A flurry of bright dots crowds your vision at the impact, and you flop right back to the ground with a yelp. What the hell?

You squeeze your eyes shut until the throbbing in your head subsides. Okay. Okay. First things first, let’s try to turn around.

You manage to turn yourself around until you’re on your back. Your situation hasn’t changed much—you can’t see a goddamn thing. Just the effort of turning over makes your bruised limbs scream in protest, forcing you to take a breather before moving again. Jeez, you really should hit the gym more often.

Hesitantly, you outstretch an arm. When it encounters nothing, you lean up a little, and there- your fingers brush metal. You move your arm to the side and then to the other, confirming that this metal, twisted and bent in places, neatly surrounds your entire form. Clearly, you’re in some kind of small, enclosed space.

Your feel your heart start to beat faster, your pulse thunk-thunk-thunking a panicky beat against the side of your neck. What _happened_? Kidnapping seems obvious, or at least it _would_ be, if you weren’t some casteless nobody living in an old watchtower on the outskirts of town—

Oh. Oh _SHIT_. You think you remember now.

The day before, you’d just been in the old structure you’d taken as your home, settling into your little pile of musty blankets for a long-deserved rest. Just as your consciousness began to slip away, the air was split by a horrific metallic screeching. And then… what?

Maybe you’d finally died in your sleep, and the noise was the grim reaper drawing up his scythe? Nah. Given that this was Alternia, their version of the grim reaper probably had, like, a chainsaw or something. With like, fifty more blades sticking out the sides. Maybe some skull decals? Actually, that sounds pretty cool, now that you think about it.

A dull haze starts to settle over your senses. You shake your head a little to dislodge the fuzz and plunge back into your steadily derailing train of thought.

Maybe a passing drone had taken notice of the tower, and somehow scooped you up to deposit you in an oddly tiny prison cell to await judgement for your many, many comical crimes? Maybe this was the work of some poacher who specifically targeted small, pathetic aliens for whatever reason? Or, hell, maybe this was reality, and everything else you’d ever experienced was just a dream. Heh, that’d explain a lot of things...

You feel yourself slipping away, and you let it happen, too tired and confused for anything else. Your last thought, before you finally pass the hell out, is _hey, weren’t we supposed to see someone today?_

\-----

Your name is CHARUN KROJIB, and, uhhhh...... you think you might be about to pass out.

Your friend’s hive is a smashed wreck at the bottom of a cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The minute I saw that background with MSPA reader's dinky hive in the Tyzias route, I... I knew. I just knew.


	2. Of Made-Up Wills and Makeshift Fashion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one

Your name is CHARUN KROJIB, and you think you might be about to pass out.

You’re standing by the cliff where your little alien friend’s hive _should_ be, only it’s... not. Looking down, you can see deep gouges stretching far down the cliff face, until your eyes finally land on a squashed metal shape at the foot of the cliff. Dread, heavy and sickening, curls in your stomach as you keep on looking, your sack of new art supplies half-spilled at your feet where it’d slipped from your frozen fingers.

The watchtower isn’t totally broken up. In fact, the top half is still basically intact, some of its windows miraculously unshattered. The rest…doesn’t look so great. Your practised eye, honed from years of sifting patiently through junk piles for usable building supplies, automatically take in the damage.

Several of the anchoring claws have snapped cleanly in two, the remaining ones bent every which way. Most of the lower windows are gaping, jagged holes, through which nothing can be seen at this distance. The surface of the actual building doesn’t appear to be too damaged—it’s heavily dented and scratched, but you’re pretty sure some of those marks were there already.

Your calm assessment of the wreck is thrown off the rails with the sudden crashing realization of _oh gog what if they were in there?_

Okay, okay, calm down. They could still be alive. They might not have even been _home_—

…but they were, weren’t they? Because…the little alien never showed up at your hive when they said they would. And, given what you know about them… you know something like this would have to have happened.

Over the last few perigees, following that day in the watchtower, you’d started to get to know your unique little neighbor better, in bits and pieces. For some reason, they always seemed so happy to see you. You never were good with people, but somehow the nondescript little alien had made themselves a frequent social presence in your life, and somehow, that was okay. Their art skills were pretty rad, too, once they stopped overthinking the whole thing.

If they were home when it happened, now they were somewhere down _there_, injured or trapped or—

You shake your head firmly. No. This isn’t you, Charun. You don’t have the time for this kind of uncharacteristic mental breakdown. Your little art-buddy needs you!

Now, what will you do?

…

…

…Uh.

The most obvious thing to do is, of course, to get down there and save them.

Immediately, you see several problems with that. You’re pretty sturdy, but you’re pretty sure that climbing down a cliff-face and safely dismantling a half-smashed hive is beyond your abilities. You could give both those things a pretty good shot, but you don’t know that you could a) get your buddy out without even more injuries than they probably already had, and b) apply first aid. You’re pretty good with your hands, but a mediculler you most certainly are not.

Which leaves the other option, the one that pushes your feelings of dread to critical mass. You need to go get help. From other people. Which means actually going up to people and talking to them.

…

…

…

…

…

Okay, enough of that. You _can_ do this. Besides… your art buddy knows, like, _everybody_, right? Certainly more people than you know, anyways. If you can just make it to town and start asking around, you’ll probably find someone who can help you.

You glance once back over to the smashed hive at the foot of the cliff to steel yourself. Just this once, you vow. You’ll do it for them. You gather up the spilled art supplies and sling the sack back over your shoulder.

“Be back soon”, you murmur, before setting off in the direction of the city. You’ve got some socializing to do.

\--

You’re making your way through a particularly sticky patch of wilderness when you realize you don’t really know the best way to get to town.

…You _think_ you recognize this area? It’s been a while. The local nematodes taste kind of familiar, anyhow.

As you move steadily through the trees, your thoughts drift towards this plan you’ve consigned yourself to. …What kinds of trolls would your alien friend be friends with? More drifters, like you? …Maybe. Or maybe- _OOMPH!_

You’re making your way through a mercifully clear area when dark blur shoots out of the trees ahead of you, slamming into your legs. A surprised grunt escapes you as you topple backwards onto the grass. At the same time, you hear a high-pitched squeak that sounds kind of like “honk!”

You sit up, dazed, automatically reaching up to readjust your sunhat where it’s slid half off your head. A few feet in front of you is, to your surprise, not a small animal. It’s a very small troll. They have a head full of thick tangled hair and a mildly alarming number of bladed weapons slung about their person. The little troll is sprawled on the ground from the force of their collision with you (oops), but they quickly recover, lightly hopping back onto their feet. A pair of large, bright eyes regards you with obvious curiosity.

“Honk?” the little troll inquires.

“Huh? Oh, uh…no, I’m fine…” you reply, brushing yourself off and rising to your feet. “…sorry about that, I should’ve…been more careful…”

A toothy smile. “Honk honk!”

“Aw, thanks…”

The small troll is giving your shoes an oddly intense look, now. No, wait. Not at you, but at the sack of art supplies you’d still had on you for some reason. It’s on the ground for the second time today, several pieces of colorful junk poking out of it.

The small troll looks at you, then the sack, then you again, pointing at your bag. “…honk?”

“…Yeah, sure, you can look…I’m kind of in a hurry, but…feel free to take something you like…”

The troll looks at you with shock before a huge grin lights up his face. He practically sticks his whole head in the bag as he roots through your latest batch of acquisitions, before popping out again, still beaming, a few strings of dinky plastic beads wrapped around his horns. He points at them, “honk?”

“Yeah, looks great…you should keep them… ” you comment, which somehow makes the other troll look even happier. They gather up the rest of the supplies back into the sack and hand it to you.

A thought occurs to you. Maybe…this little guy could help you out? They seem pretty small, to be honest, but…anything would be better than just you, at this point, right?

“Hey, uh, do you happen to know…the other guy who lives out here? Kind of…” you gesture vaguely to indicate a height a foot or so above the little troll’s head, “this tall…not a troll, though, they’re a…uh…”

The “not a troll” seems to get this little guy’s attention, as he starts bouncing up and down. “Honk HONK!!” he exclaims. Before you can say anything else, he pulls out one of his knives—you startle briefly, but he isn’t looking at you; he uses the blade to carefully carve a few lines in a small patch of dirt. When he’s finished, he looks at you and points at the drawing. It’s a surprisingly neat drawing, depicting a small person with a large round head, two small circular eyes, and a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, that one…!” you exclaim. You’re overjoyed. Who knew socializing could be this easy? Why don’t more people just…communicate through art and random sound effects, instead of having to worry about all those pesky words?

“Listen…” You squat down so you can look the little troll in the eyes. “This guy…they’re in trouble right now…” The other troll’s eyes widen in alarm. You continue, “…I think they’re trapped in their hive. It’s...pretty wrecked. We need to help them…do you know anything or…or anyone who can help get them out?”

The other troll nods so fast, he nearly jabs you in the eye with one of his horns. Honking rapidly, he grabs something hanging around his neck and jingles it in your face. Reaching up to still his hand, you manage to get a good look at it. It’s an ID chain of some kind. On one side is his sign, a simple purple loop. On the other side are two pieces of information—one, his name is KARAKO PIEROT, and two, he’s in the care of someone called BRONYA URSAMA.

“Is Bronya…someone who can help…?” you ask, hesitantly. Another stream of enthusiastic “honks” is his response.

“…Can you take me to her?”

“HONK!”

“…Okay…” You stand. “…Lead the w—”

Karako takes off before you finish speaking, leaping through the brush with the agility of a purrbeast.

“…Wait up…!” You call, setting off after him at a jog. You hope this Bronya person is as easy a person to talk to as Karako. And possibly very, very strong. That would help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that CHARUN’S quirk gave me some trouble writing means I’m really in for it


	3. Of Communications Derailed and Cavern Drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: Keeping Up With the Jadebloods, pt. 1

Your name is LYNERA SKALBI and you are approximately one (1) knife away from completely losing it.

In most cases, this means a troll is about to die a painful and righteous death at your hands. In this particular scenario, however, it just means you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown.

As far as measuring tools go, the knife-meter is woefully limited when it comes to depicting any emotions other than bloodthirst.

-It’s !!! not even your fault !!! You’d been so careful, like you ALWAYS are, wearing your very best “approachable caretaker” smile and using a sweet gentle voice and blocking the entryway to his room with a boulder, but somehow, _somehow,_ the little wriggler had managed to squirm outside through the narrow gap and now, and now,

-this wasn’t supposed to _happen _!!! not to _you_, to Daraya or Lanque or one of the others maybe, but not _you_, the responsible one, the helpful one, the hardworking one, the one who Bronya always relies on to—

“honk.”

-oh no oh no oh nonononono, Bronya, Bronya, _Bronya_, you have to tell Bronya, you have to tell her that Karako got out again and !!! of course it’s happened before, of course, but it’s never happened while _you_ were watching him, because _you _were always _so_ careful, and you’re so so sorry this happened, you’ll never let it happen again, you swear it, you swear it on every drop of jade blood that makes it into your bloodpusher that you’ll never let her down again—

“…honk?”

-and then she’ll smile at you, won’t she, and she’ll tell you it’s fine, those beautiful mesmerizing perfect eyes _brimming_ with platonic pity and you won’t be able to _stand_ it, and !!! and !!!-

“_honk_!”

A small hand tugs at your skirt. Your head snaps down, the words “-go to your room, Wanshi” halfway past your lips when you finally realize just who it is. Your knife-meter clatters inaudibly back to 0 as you let out a long shriek of triumph, scooping the tiny purpleblood up into your arms and squeezing him tight. “-ohthankgoodness, you’re here, you’re alright, you’re not a rotting carcass being picked to the bones in some filthy alleyway !!”

Ignoring your temporary charge’s attempts to squirm free of your benevolent claws, you expertly adjust your grip so that you hold him under the arms and dangle him at arm’s length, inspecting him for injuries. Besides the usual grime he seems to accumulate on a daily basis, he seems to be perfectly fine.

“-now, Karako,” you coo, in your patented Coddling Caretaker voice, “we’re going to get you cleaned up, and get you something nice to eat, and !! if Bronya asks you anything, _anything, _you’re going to tell her you— ”

The sound of someone awkwardly clearing their mealtunnel alerts you to the fact that you are, in fact, not the only two people in the cavern entryway.

You whirl around to see an oliveblood troll standing a few feet away. Was he- or she?- there the whole time?

Your eyes quickly dart up and down to assess the threat level. They’re dressed rather shabbily, for one thing. Which really isn’t an indicator of a potential threat, but it’s certainly a cause for your disdain.

Something about the way they hold themselves seems suspicious. They look physically uncomfortable, fiddling with their clothes and hair and refusing to look you in the eyes. Your knife-meter raises to 2/5.

You quickly compose yourself, placing Karako on the ground and then straightening up to level a steely gaze at the intruder. “-who are you?” you bark. “-why did you come here? -did you follow Karako ?! -what do you want ?!”

The other troll starts a little. “no, I…he brought me here…” they mumble. Behind you, Karako honks several times, confirming the other troll’s words.

Oh, okay, so it’s just yet another random bystander getting swept up in Karako’s shenanigans. You relax your stance a little. The knife-meter drops to 1/5. “-I see !” you declare, “well ! thank you for accompanying him home !” You gesture not-so-subtly to the main entrance. “-you may return to your own business now. -I’ll make sure _this_ one doesn’t get himself into any more trouble.”

To your confusion, the oliveblood troll doesn’t move an inch. “Actually, I’m kind of…looking for someone who lives here…” they manage to get out, slowly, tugging a little at a strand of hair. “Karako said… he could take me to someone called…uh……” they scratch their chin in contemplation. Several long seconds pass. You feel your eyelid twitch.

“……Bronya…?”

Your knife-meter shoots _straight_ up. How _dare_ this filthy vagrant just !!! _show_ _up_ and demand your Bronya’s precious time !!! Your trusty knife is in hand in an instant, the blade extended towards the oliveblood. You think you hear a high-pitched honk from behind you, and you use your other arm to shepherd Karako behind you.

“-what was that ?!?” you snap at the other troll. “-what do you want with Bronya !?!”

“I, uh…I need to—”

“-need to what ?? distract her from her duties ?!”

“I just—”

“-we jadebloods do important work here !! -we’re working to keep all of trollkind alive !! what makes you think you can !! infringe on our work ?!”

“…I—”

“-Bronya is probably the reason you were born !! in the first place !! -you aren’t even fit to kiss her feet, and here you are, asking to see her ?!? -how impudent !!” You’re positively seething at this point. “-Bronya is one the most wonderful, gifted, kind, talented, radiant trolls on the entire planet, and if your seriously think !! that you can just !! take up her time !! then you’d better get the _hell_ out of here before _I’m_ forced to—”

A hand curls firmly around the wrist of your knife hand.

Your righteous tirade screeches to a halt, and you stand there, gobsmacked.

You’d been so worked up over Bronya’s overall perfection that you hadn’t even realized that you’d been moving closer towards the oliveblood, little by little, until you were practically up in their face. They’re about a foot away, now, within the exact range one would need to be at in order to slowly reach up and take ahold of your extended wrist. Which is exactly what they just did.

Their eyes flick up to meet yours for the first time, and you can see they look just as astonished as you are at what’s just happened. “…Um.” they say. “Can you maybe just…put down the knife…please…?”

You snap out of it as they start lowering their arm, very slowly, still holding your wrist, in order to point your knife away from their face.

If you were seething before, that is _nothing_ compared to what you’re feeling right now. A wave of platonic rage floods your senses like lava. How _dare_ this stranger just- just- make this brazenly pale advance on you !!! How dare they mock you like this !!!

“-_DON’T TOUCH ME_ !!!” you howl, yanking your wrist back up, only to encounter resistance from the oliveblood. The tip of the knife wavers back and forth between the two of you as you struggle. “-you !!!!! -you _ingrate_ !!!!! -look what you made me d—"

“HONK HONK !!” “▼ Lynera, what the fuck. ▲”

You turn your head automatically to the sound of a familiar voice. Standing at the entrance to one of the tunnels is Daraya, looking characteristically disgruntled. The absence of several pieces of her usual spiked jewelry, as well as her wrinkled clothes, suggest she just rolled out of her recuperacoon a little while ago. Holding her hand is an anxious-looking Karako. He must have scampered off to fetch her while you were preoccupied.

“-it’s _nothing_,” you assure her, through gritted teeth. “-just dealing with this ! _intruder_ who’s clearly trying to harass the jades when there’s important work to be done –”

“▼ yeah uh that’s not what Karako said▲” Daraya cuts you off. “▼ he said you were getting into another murderfit. not that it’s my problem what you do for a hobby, but like, if you get blood all over the entryway it’s gonna stink for months ▲”

“-I’m perfectly capable cleaning up my own messes !!” you shoot back. Daraya shrugs. “▼ sure. ▲”

Your fellow jade’s eyes drift over to where you’re still trying to yank back your knife from the oliveblood. Her nose crinkles in disgust. “▼▼ ugh, _shit,_ am i gonna have to _auspisticize_ for you? ▲▲”

“-WHAT !!!” you shriek, completely aghast, actually dropping your knife. The oliveblood immediately releases your wrist with clear relief written all over their face.

“▼ okay, apparently not▲” Daraya says, with some amusement.

Freed from the threat of your knife (for the time being), the oliveblood speaks up, this time in Daraya’s direction. “You wouldn’t happen to be…Bronya, by any chance…?”

“▼ what? ew, no, gross▲” Daraya waves her free hand as though warding off any Bronya-like vibes. “▼Bronya’s, like, our wannabe lusus. she’s not here right now, she went out with one of the others to get supplies ▲”

The oliveblood, who you’re still watching like a hawk in case of any sudden movements, droops visibly. “…Oh...”

Karako tugs on Daraya’s sleeve, “honk?”

“▼ yeah, she _was_ supposed to be back by now, but she texted the group chat a little while ago to say she’d be late. something about a couple streets getting closed off after some gold OD’ed on mind honey. it's basically over now, but there’s still a ton of fires and shit. ▲” Seeing Karako’s distress, she bends down to pat him between the horns, which, you only now notice, have several strings of plastic beads tangled around them for some reason. “▼ she’s probably fine. Wanshi too. Bronya’ll probably beat the shit out of anyone who comes near her. ▲”

That does sound like Bronya, you think dreamily to yourself.

“▼ so why’d you come to see Bronya in the first place, she’s a total drag ▲”

The oliveblood, who is still _here_ for some reason, sighs. “…I need her to help me save a friend of mine…or, a friend of _ours_, I guess…? Karako mentioned that she was their friend too…”

Daraya’s brow furrows in confusion. “▼ a friend of Bronya’s? outside the caverns? who--▲” Her face lights up in realization. “▼▼ shit. the alien? ▲▲”

The oliveblood looks stunned. “oh…! you know them too…?”

“▼ yeah, we’re friends ▲”

This is news to you.

“-Daraya, you’re friends with the alien ??” you demand. You see a flash of panic cross her face. “-how do you know them ? have you been sneaking outside the caverns again ?!”

Daraya looks defensive. “▼ that’s none of your business ▲”

“-it’s exactly my business !!! as the jades’ second-in-command—”

“▼▼ well, how do _you_ know about them, huh? ▲▲” she shoots back. “▼▼ have _you_ been sneaking out? ▲▲”

“!!! -how dare you !!! I’ll have _you_ know that I met them here in the caverns !!!”

“▼ sure, whatever you say ▲” Daraya sneers. She turns back to the oliveblood. “▼so wait, what happened to the alien? and, uh, what was your name again▲”

“Charun, and…their hive collapsed on them…”

“▼▼ what!? ▲▲” “-WHAT !!!!! -why didn’t you say so earlier !!!!!”

Charun looks completely overwhelmed. “I didn’t know you were friends with them…!”

Daraya locks eyes with you. “▼ i’m going ▲”

“-the caverns—”

“▼ the mother grub’s still asleep, plus there’s tons of other jades around ▲”

Both these things are true, you know. It’s only late evening, and the mother grub usually doesn’t need much attention until a little later in the night. Plus, all the other jades are in the caverns, minus Bronya and Wanshi.

Still, you hesitate. Can you really just…leave, just like this?

“▼ oh and Karako says he’s coming too btw ▲”

Well, that settles it. You are _not_ going to let yourself lose track of Bronya’s charge for the second time today.

“-well, clearly someone needs to stick around to keep an eye on you two !” you decide. Daraya groans. “-don’t you make that face at me !”

“▼ yeah, whatever ▲” Daraya pokes her tongue out childishly.

“…can we go, please…?” pipes up Charun. “I’m pretty sure they’ve been hivestuck for…maybe two hours now, we should probably get going…”

“▼ yeah sure let’s go ▲” says Daraya. She side-eyes you. “▼ unless there are any other rebellious jades we should be bringing along? ▲”

It’s obvious from her tone that she’s just snarking, but then she sees the look on your face. “▼ shit, seriously? _another_ jade who’s secretly friends with an alien? ▲”

You nod slightly.

“▼ which one? is it Almeah? Tanyia? or—▲”

“-it’s _Lanque_.”

“▼▼ _Lanque_ is friends with the alien? ▲▲”

“- ! I don’t know ! I saw them meet at a party and then—”

“▼▼ wait, you were at a _party_? _you_? and _Lanque_? ▲▲”

“-IT WASN’T !!! LIKE THAT !!!” you screech. You can feel the blood rushing to your face at Daraya’s implications.

“▼ you sure? because you guys have had this unresolved black tension going on for like, ever—▲”

“-NO !!!” you practically wail. “-he just !!! invited me so he could make fun of me !!!”

“▼ shit, yikes ▲” says Daraya. She sounds taken aback. To your surprise, she actually comes closer and puts a hand on your shoulder.

“▼ yeah, that sounds like something he’d do ▲” she sighs, with a degree of sympathy that surprises you. “▼ still, we need as many people as we can, and Lanque’s pretty popular ▲” She shrugs, resigned. “▼ who knows, maybe he has some strong goldbloods or indigobloods in his contacts who can help us out ▲”

“-well, what about you? don’t you know any of the alien’s other friends?”

Daraya frowns. “▼ no, I don’t—▲” Then she seems to remember something. “▼oh right, _Entykk_.▲”

She turns to look at all three of you. At this point, Charun and Karako are sat on the cavern floor together, using random stones and trash to make little structures, waiting for the two of you to finish yelling. It’s very cute. Despite all your- admittedly awful- initial impressions of the oliveblood, they seem to be a pretty good grubsitter.

“▼ you guys go see if you can get Lanque to do something, I gotta go get my palmhusk▲” she says, already making her way towards the nearest tunnel entrance. “▼ I’ve got a tealblood chick to call up ▲”

Before you can say anything, she’s gone. Typical.

You take a long, deep breath to calm yourself down, before turning to the two on the floor.

“-alright, playtime’s over, let’s go find Lanque !” you announce with false cheer, “-it’s about time he did something productive !”

“…you sure? Karako says he’s…kind of mean.”

“-that’s why ! we’re all going together !” you cajole, trying to force the most non-threatening smile you can manage. “-the more of us there are, the less of us there is to get hurt ! right ?”

Charun looks wholly unconvinced. Karako looks confused.

With a huff, you whirl around and start marching towards the southeast tunnel entrance before you can lose your nerve. After a few moments, you hear two steps of footsteps in your wake, one plodding and one scampering, and you feel a bit of the tension bleed out of your shoulders.

The three of you reach Lanque’s room in no time at all. There’s brief 3x INTENSE STAREDOWN COMBO as you all stand outside the door, none of you willing to be the one to knock.

Luckily, it turns out no one has to make that decision. The door swings open on its own.

“Why, _Lynera”_ sneers Lanque Bombyx. “To What do I oWe the pleasure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both lynera and charun are rage players AND derse dreamers so I was curious about what would happen if they ever existed in the same room; turns out the answer is “no productive communication”


	4. Of Misdirected Messages and Mindful Matesprits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support you guys have shown so far!

Your name is STELSA SEYZAT and you are completely enraptured.

The greatest miracle you’ve ever witnessed is before you. It _must_ be a miracle, surely, because a sight like this is beyond imagining, beyond dreaming of, beyond any of your wildest hopes and dreams. Is that a choir of many-feathered lusii you hear singing, or is that just the singing of your spirit as it soars jubilantly into the heavens?

You can actually feel little tears welling up as you behold this unexpected, dazzling vision.

Your matesprit is _fast asleep_.

NO, ACTUALLY!

Not that sputtering half-doze where she drifts back and forth from consciousness to unconsciousness, mumbling “I’mmmm awwwwake, I’mmmm awwwwake” over and over like a mantra.

Not that trance state she slips into after a full perigee of constant work, when hunger and exhaustion start catching up to her, waving imaginary receipts.

No, Tyzias Entykk is ASLEEP.

You’re standing at the door of her personal office, frozen in the doorway as though the slightest movement could shatter the moment. You’d brought along a packed lunch for Zizi, in a little paper bag lovingly marked with both your signs side-by-side inside a big red heart. The bag dangles loosely from your fingers as you behold the scene before you.

Tyzias’ office looks even more like a fire hazard than usual. The walls and floor are coated liberally in a thick layer of paper. Law tomes lie scattered here and there, choking on bookmarks in every color on the spectrum. Some of the books are so overstuffed with papers and notes that they can’t even close. You count at least a dozen empty mugs.

In the eye of the hurricane is your Zizi, flopped back in her desk chair, limbs dangling every which way. The occasional snore escapes her half-open mouth, a heavy exhale that ruffles some strands of hair drooping in her face. Her head lolls a little to the side, and you can see a thin line of drool drawn across her cheek.

Gog, she’s so beautiful.

For a few quiet, blissful moments, the two of you stay like that, her sleeping normally for the first time in what is probably perigees and you watching her fondly. Just as you start to consider whether to leave her in the chair or simply carry her home, a flash of light catches your eye. Your gaze automatically turns towards it.

On the desk, the screen of Tyzias’ palmhusk has just lit up.

The whole world seems to slow down, the seconds trickling sluggishly past as your mind races. You know for a _fact_ that Zizi doesn’t put her husk on silent. Too many reminders and events and study groups to keep up with.

Your eyes dart rapidly back and forth across the office, your neat, efficient auditerrorizer’s thinkpan rapidly whirring as you analyze the situation. In just a matter of milliseconds, the phone will release its first ring. The sound will doubtless wake Zizi, who will, of course, answer the call and return to her ever-growing piles of coursework and research. This outcome, although it doubtlessly has its pros for Tyzias’ academic life, is COMPLETELY UNFAVORABLE.

Your mind made up, you use the doorframe to launch yourself into the room, bobbing and weaving your way across the deadly landscape wrought by Tyzias’ mind. Paper stacks rustle and sway in your wake, but do not topple, so measured and precise are your steps. Two-thirds of the way across, your path is cut off by veritable minefield of ceramic mugs; without breaking your momentum, you leap up to run across the wall of the office before effortlessly leaping off to land lightly beside the desk.

You snatch the palmhusk off the desk just as the first ring begins to whine against the speaker and, after briefly considering smashing it against the floor, practically hurl yourself out of the office, offending noisemaker in hand.

Once outside and halfway down the hall, you hit the answer button without really thinking about it and immediately cut off the caller with “TYZIAS IS ATTENDING TO SOME EXTREMELY IMPORTANT BUSINESS AT THE MOMENT AFRAID YOU’LL HAVE TO CALL BACK LATER SO SORRY TO LET YOU GO BUT YOU KNOW HOW IT IS—"

“▼_wait no don’t hang up-- you don’t understand, I_ have _to talk to Tyzias_ ▲” The voice on the other line is unfamiliar to you, but the sheer amount of panic in it gives you pause.

“WELL IT CERTAINLY SOUNDS LIKE YOU HAVE AN URGENT ISSUE BUT YOU WILL HAVE TO BE MORE SPECIFIC DEAR TYZIAS IS EXTREMELY BUSY AT THE MOMENT”

“▼_who even are you?_ ▲” the voice on the other end says, incredulously. “▼_and why the fuck are you so loud?_ ▲”

“I AM HER MATESPRIT” you announce. “AND WHO MIGHT YOU BE AND WHAT IS THIS ISSUE THAT IS SO PRESSING THAT IT TAKES PRECEDENT OVER THE EXTREMELY IMPORTANT WORK SHE IS CURRENTLY DOING”

“▼_I’m kind of like, a mutual friend of hers, I guess? as for the other thing, uh…_ ▲” There’s a pause, and when the voice speaks again, your ears prick a little at the slight tension in the other troll’s tone. “▼ _it’s kind of complicated and I’d rather talk to it with Tyzias, no offense, so if you could just hand the husk over to her that’d be greeeat right about now _▲” the voice finishes in a rush.

It’s an incredibly flimsy response. Clearly, this person isn’t calling for any legitimate reason, or else they would have simply come out and told you. You feel a pulse of anger at the thought of any trolls trying to manipulate your matesprit, or—your gut tightens with dread—taking advantage of her wonderful idealism to pull her into some half-conceived rebel plot, using her skills and expertise and then leaving her to be crucified by the Empire.

The dark knot of dread tightens a little more as you wonder: does Tyzias get calls like this _often_? And, if so… how often does she _answer_ them? What if those calls were being traced, or wiretapped, or recorded, especially if the callers got Tyzias talking about certain _opinions_ she harbors…?

You shake your head furiously to dispel that train of thought. No, you trust Tyzias to look after herself. It’s not healthy for you to start thinking too hard about who your matesprit talks to on a day-to-day basis. You’re both very busy trolls and, if anything, you probably meet with more dubious trolls on a daily basis than she does, seeing your clients come from a moderately large variety of castes and professions.

Still, you can’t help but feel these occasional flashes of…for lack of a more appropriate term, _pale_ concern for your matesprit. There’s something in her that _burns,_ something you can only clearly see when she’s sunk into her darkest moods, and you often worry she’ll burn up along with it.

For now, the best you can do is chase off anyone trying to use that fire of hers to fuel their own selfish goals.

“THAT IS NOT AN ANSWER” you counter, your voice steely. “IF THIS IS NOT A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS CALL AND YOU INTEND ON HARASSING MY ZIZI I WILL NOT HESITATE TO REPORT THIS NUMBER TO THE DRONES”

“▼_what, no, wait, shit, don’t do that_ ▲” the other troll fumbles. “▼_just—hold on a second, I’ll tell you_ ▲”

“GO ON” you snap.

“▼_it’s the mutual friend we both share, their hive got wrecked while they were inside and we need all the help we can get to get them out and it’s already been a couple of hours and we don’t even know if they’re still _alive_ and—_ ▲”

Oh, dear. This might not have been as malicious as you thought. “SLOW DOWN DEAR I CAN HEAR YOU HYPERVENTILATING FROM HERE DEEP BREATHS NOW” you cut in, using your best approximation of a gentle tone.

“▼_just please don’t call the drones_ ▲” pleads the voice, after a few long breaths.

“REST ASSURED DEAR I WILL NOT BE DOING THAT ANYTIME SOON NOW PLEASE WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS FRIEND OF ZIZIS I MIGHT JUST KNOW THEM”

A long pause, and then, a quiet “▼_ I…. I don’t want to put them in any more danger than they’re in already_ ▲”

It clicks, suddenly. “BECAUSE THEY’RE AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL AND OFF-SPECTRUM TO BOOT I ASSUME”

“▼_wha-- how did you know? shit, and here I’ve been fumbling like a dumbass this entire time_ ▲” the other troll grumbles.

“NO NEED TO BE SO HARD ON YOURSELF DEAR” you assure her, “IM SURE YOU HAD ONLY THE BEST INTENTIONS AT HEART NO NEED AT ALL TO FRET”

“▼_ugh, you sound like my lus—I mean, my boss_ ▲” The other troll groans. “▼ _ok, so you know the alien, great; you know where their hive is?_ ▲”

“I HAVE YET TO JOURNEY THERE MYSELF”, you admit. “HOWEVER I KNOW TYZIAS HAS VISITED ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS”

“▼_perfect, could you guys meet us there asap? we have a mediculler kit here, so you guys just bring whatever other useful crap you have lying around, like power tools or blankets or whatever, we’ll figure it out when we get there_ ▲” the other troll says, sounding more and more excited as she goes on, “▼_at this point I just really want to get down there and see if they’re okay _▲”

“REST ASSURED WE WILL BE THERE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE” you announce, before realizing, “OH MY GOODNESS I DO BELIEVE WEVE YET TO EXCHANGE NAMES HOW EMBARASSING OF ME THE NAMES STELSA SEYZAT LOVELY TO MEET YOU”

“▼_ I think my ears are actually ringing right now, fuck_ ▲” grumbles the other troll. “▼_Daraya Jonjet _▲”

“PLEASURE TO MEET YOU ILL SEE YOU IN JUST A LITTLE WHILE I JUST NEED TO WAKE UP ZIZI AND THEN WELL BE RIGHT THERE”

“▼_wait, didn’t you just say she was wor—_ ▲” you think you hear Daraya begin, but you’ve already hung up. No time to waste on technicalities; you’ve got a friend in need.

You turn and head back down the hall to Tyzias’ office at a fast clip, although you falter as you draw near her door. Does Tyzias _really_ need to be woken up, when she’s finally taking a normal nap? Oh, but she’s terribly fond the little alien, the dear, and she’d hate to be out of it while they were in mortal danger…

Luckily, it turns out that’s not your call to make. As you draw nearer, you hear sounds coming from inside the office, some rustling and a few thumps followed by a muffled curse.

You poke your head inside to see your matesprit shuffling some things around her desk, hair and clothes still askew. She looks up blearily as you walk in, and a moment later her lips curve into a little smile that makes you want to kiss her so badly it physically hurts. “hey, babe.” she greets you. “have you seen mmmmy phone around here, by any chance?”

You cross the room, this time at a more sedate pace, and hand it to her once you reach the desk. “I DIDNT WANT IT TO WAKE YOU UP SO SOON DEAR”, you explain, a bit sheepishly.

She just smiles and leans forward, one hand on the desk to steady herself, placing the other on your shoulder to press a long, slow kiss to your cheek. “i’d do it properly, but i’mmmm pretty sure mmmmy evening breath wwwwill just kill the mmmmommmment.” she murmurs against your face. You can practically feel your bloodpusher threatening to split your chest cavity.

She pulls back a little, a look on her face like she’s just remembered something. “oh, did i get any calls wwwwhile i wwwwas out?”

You snap out of your lovestruck haze. Oh, right!

“YES AND I THINK YOU MAY WANT TO START GETTING READY TO LEAVE DARLING WE HAVE A RENDEZVOUS TO KEEP WITH SOME MUTUAL FRIENDS”, you reply and, before she can say anything, “ONE THING FIRST THOUGH MY DEAREST- HOW MANY OF THE OTHER TEALS IN THIS BUILDING KNOW ABOUT OUR ALIEN FRIEND”

“a couple. wwwwhy?” She’s beginning to look concerned.

“A SUCCESSFUL RESCUE MISSION NEEDS ALL THE HANDS IT CAN GET” you state, “AND OUR ALIEN FRIEND DESERVES NOTHING LESS”

Tyzias’ eyes widen. “_shit_. wwwwhat happened?”

You relay the contents of Daraya’s call, minus the part where you thought she was a shady troll trying to manipulate Tyzias. Your matesprit looks more and more devastated as you go on. “ugh, I should have knowwwwn this wwwwould happen the _mmmminute_ I sawwww their crappy hive.” She groans, hands dug into her hair. “I should have told themmmm to _mmmmove_, or sommmmething.” She sighs. “not that there’s really anywwwwhere else they could’ve gone.”

Tyzias lets her hands drop to her sides. There’s a look of grim determination on her face. “c’mmmmon”, she says, taking your hand in hers and starting to head for the door. “let’s get themmmm out of there. they've been stuck in that crappy hive long enough already.”

“AFTER INFORMING THE OTHER TEALS WITH CONNECTIONS TO THE ALIEN”, you remind her, and Zizi grimaces. “fine, okay, let’s fill the other assholes in on the situation wwwwhile wwwwe’re still here. i seriously doubt they’ll be of any help, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get you a girl who would do troll parkour for you without hesitation


	5. Of Lamentation and Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he...

Your name is LANQUE BOMBYX and your life is the punchline of some fucked-up joke.

What’s more, you didn’t even get to _hear_ the joke itself, so you can’t even laugh at yourself.

You’re sprawled in your recuperacoon in your room in the caverns. You’re still wearing the clothes you wore last night, though they’re now soaked with sopor slime. Conveniently, you’re distracted from this fact by the violent throbbing in your temples. It feels like your thinkpan was shredded into mincemeat, chewed up by a barkbeast, tossed into an acid vat, and then shoveled back into your skull through your eye sockets.

It’s not the worst hangover you’ve ever had, but it’s certainly not one you’re up to dealing with right now.

You tip your head back to stare up at the cavern ceiling. This room has been yours for as long as you can remember; as a result, the ceiling above your ‘coon is imprinted in your thinkpan like the face of an old friend. There’s the two bisecting cracks in the top left of your vision, the little dark specks that _almost_ form a curl but instead trail off into a shape more like a crooked hairpin, and there, if you tilt your head back a little, is the little spike of what _could_ be an ill-formed stalactite. You’re not sure. When you were younger, you’d gaze up and wonder if it would grow to a full-sized stalactite, the shadows in the room tricking you into believing it was growing.

You’re pretty sure you’ll never know. By the time the tip of the hypothetical stalactite descends to the point where you could have reached up and touched it, you will be long gone. The transport ships will have come to take you to the cloister, just one more jadeblood out of thousands who have taken the trip before and thousands who will come after. And just like that, without ceremony or grace, your life will come to an end.

A bitter chuckle spills out from between your fangs. _Life_. That’s a good one.

It’s not so much the predestination that fucks you up so much. You’re not a _total_ narcissistic idiot; every grub that hatches beneath the Alternian sky comes with an expiration date, some much sooner than others. A good number of lowbloods born in the same batch as you will die before you’re even sent to the cloisters, either culled by highbloods or succumbing to the early deaths promised by their blood. Such is life; everyone goes out eventually. In that regard, you’re not special.

What really fucks you up is the fact that you’re still here.

Here you are, the _disgrace_ of the jadeblood caverns, callous, hedonistic, utterly self-serving, vicious, selfish, debauched— _and you’re still here_.

And you know perfectly well that, so long as you stay here, jade blood running through your veins, they’ll still come for you, no matter what it is you become. No matter what new drugs you get hooked on or quadrants you squander or grub-sitting duties you shirk, the ships will still come, and you will still go with them.

_So why are you still here?_

You slowly begin pulling yourself out of the recuperacoon, brushing a few stray globs off your clothes. Your head still aches, but a fraction more tolerably, allowing you to make your way over to the small wash basin built into one of the walls. As you scrub away the remnants of your fatigue with the ice-cold water—the only temperature of water the caverns allow for—you get an eyeful of your face in the mirror hung above the basin.

You watch as your lips curl in disgust at what you see reflected there.

“CoWard.” you snarl.

Because that’s exactly what you are, aren’t you? You say you want to live, that you want to feel alive, but all you’re not even trying to escape your cage. All you’ve done is outstretch your hand uselessly through a gap in the bars, clawing and groping in vain for the barest shred of freedom.

You know very well that there are exactly two ways to exit a cage with no doors: to contort and mangle and chop away at yourself until you can slip through the gaps, or, to dash yourself to death against the bars.

You’d considered the first, once or twice, when the reality of your situation had only just begun to sink in. What cloister would take a jadeblood missing a leg, or an eye, or both hands? But then you’d learned about the Empire’s vast supply of robotic replacement limbs, and that plan was quickly discarded.

You’d never considered the second option. You cast your mind to it, now, and you quickly find that you can’t dwell on it too long.

Despite everything, you do not want to die.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror and go to take your palmhusk off its charger. You scroll through your notifications: some activity in the jadeblood group chat, which you mute without even reading; a couple of flirty messages—mostly flushed, with a few pale and black solicitations mixed in—that you carelessly delete; some spam here and there…

At one point, while scrolling through the main Chittr page, you pause.

There’s an ad for a poetry slam.

A sharp stab of guilt unexpectedly drives its way into your bloodpusher as you think about your poetry. Sweeps ago, you’d discovered it and had fallen immediately in love, spending hours sprawled on the floor of your respiteblock, lost in pages and pages of breathtaking verse. You’d started writing your own not too long after. Bronya had been so delighted that you’d found yourself a hobby.

You haven’t written a poem since…actually, you’re not sure. As you grew older and bitterer, your will to write, to craft meaningful words to read and share with others, had steadily fizzled out. What beauty was there to be discovered in a life that had already been written to its end? Why waste words trying to glorify the shitty lot you’d been given?

You wonder, briefly, at what would have happened if you’d never stopped writing.

It wouldn’t be _you_, for one thing. A Lanque who lived the same way you did and yet, somehow, found the will to continue to create…they would be completely unrecognizable.

And yet, all the same, _he_ would be taken, too.

You could be a stranger, gentler Lanque, a Lanque who chose joy and sweetness, a Lanque who filled his life with light and song, and you would still be taken.

You could be an abuser of your blood caste, the kind of troll who looked upon lowbloods as naught but insects to be ground beneath your heel for daring to move and breathe and think in any way that did not suit your whims, and you would still be taken.

You could cull a wriggler and you would still be taken.

You could slice your fingers off one by one and you would still be taken.

You could still be _her_ and you would still be taken.

You feel a sharp pain in your hand and look down. The shell case surrounding your palmhusk has cracked in your grip. You watch a thin stream of jade run down your palm to your wrist.

With a huff of irritation, you stand, pocket your palmhusk, and cross over to the door of your respiteblock, fully intent on fetching a bandage from the mediculler kit from the storage cupboard down the hall.

To your surprise, three trolls are stood outside your door. Your eyes rake over them, one by one, taking in the situation.

One of them, an oliveblood, is a stranger to you. They’re fidgeting with their hair and clothes, their body language positively screaming “I don’t like dealing with people, please please please get me out of here please”.

The second is Karako.

And the third one…

Why, _Lynera_” you greet her, unable to suppress a sneer. “To What do I oWe the pleasure?”

She glares, which surprises you. You didn’t think she’d be able to look you in the eye after the party.

“-Lanque, you’ve taken a basic medicull course, right?” she says, her voice a little high-pitched but steady.

You shrug, “I may haVe. Who Wants to knoW?” None of them appear to be bleeding. “Oh, don’t tell me,” you continue, cutting her off, “You _finally_ found someone to fill that Withered-up black quadrant of yours, but you Went into psycho-bitch mode and stabbed them, and noW you come craWling to me to fix them up, is that it?”

“-WHY DOES EVERYONE !! SEEM !! TO THINK !! I NEED !! A KISMESIS !!” Lynera explodes, to your delight. “- I DON’T—”

Sadly, her rage is halted by the little purpleblood, who tugs on her sleeve and gives a frustrated honk. Lynera takes a few huge breaths before looking you dead in the eye. “-the alien is in trouble ! and ! we need…as much support as we can”, she trails off, clearly too embarrassed to say something like “we need you”.

You don’t know the alien all too well, having not seen them in person since the night of the party at that cerulean girl’s house. You’d made friends with them on Chittr, though, and you’ve had a couple of friendly interactions with them in the comments section of their posts.

Oh, and you might have made out with them in someone else’s respiteblock that one time, but hey, don’t all the best friendships start that way?

“Sure.”

Lynera opens her mouth to say something else when she suddenly registers you’ve just said. “-what ?”

“Are you deaf as Well as psychotic?” you scoff, though there’s no real venom in it. Your mind is rather preoccupied with other thoughts—namely, whatever “trouble” the extraterrestrial might be in. If you recall correctly, the little alien is a lot more fragile than the average bungundyblood, and if they need medicull attention, it’s going to have to be soon. “You’re lucky I don’t haVe anything else on my plate”, you continue. “I’ll meet you out front in fiVe; I can’t be seen looking like this.”

As you close the door to your respiteblock in their faces, you think you hear a slow, rumbly voice say: “…well, that was easy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its about to go down


	6. Of Obsolete Convictions and Overdue Corrections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all your comments; they mean more to me than hair conditioner matters to tagora (probably)

Your name is TEGIRI KALBUR and you are beginning to think you may have been cursed by the fates. Why else would one with such skills as yours be subjected to so demeaning a task? Why must these hands of yours, honed in the art of the blade from hours of relentless toil practicing katas beneath the Alternian moons, be wasted on such foolish, thankless—

“DO SPEAK UP WONT YOU TEGIRI YOU KNOW I CANT HEAR A WORD OF WHAT YOURE SAYING WHEN YOU MUMBLE LIKE THAT”

“He’s just sulking because he’s on Tirona Duty.”

“That is b/atant s/ander!” you protest. “I have no qua/ms about doing what needs to be done for the greater good.” Readjusting your grip, you can’t help but add “it’s just that I’m _a/ways_ the one stuck on Tirona Duty.”

“w33ll g3333, _sorry!” _Tirona says sarcastically from where she’s tucked under your arm. “Not lik33 I _ask33d_ to be haul33ed around like a bush33l of _stinkroots_!” She wriggles a little, not enough to shake your grip, just to emphasise her point. “How com33 you won’t just l33t m33 walk?”

“_Because_,” Tyzias says, boredly, “if wwwwe let you dowwwwn, you’ll either scuttle off to try to break into our offices like you alwwwways do, _or_ you’ll just slowwww us dowwwwn wwwwith those shrimpy legs of yours.”

Tirona pouts audibly, and you think you hear her mutter something like “your vib33s are absolut33ly disgusting”, but she doesn’t refute either of the accusations.

The four of you are making your way at a steady pace down the back alleys of Outglut, taking the shortest possible route to reach the city limits near the abode of your alien friend. You had, of course, volunteered to lead the way through the winding alleys, being One Who Walks the Border Between Light and Shadow, but Tyzias had just shoved an armful of Tirona in your direction and insisted Stelsa take the lead. Heh. Typical. Leave it to your foolish classmates to reject the teachings of one who knows the darkness like an old friend. Such _tsunderes_.

When Tyzias had come knocking on your door with news about your newest anime club recruit, you’d immediately agreed to lend your aid. What kind of a senpai leaves his kouhai in their time of need? You would sooner commit seppuku than leave your friend to die.

Tirona had agreed, too, whining something about the internet being too boring lately. “I n3333d n33w mat33rial, and that ali33n’s whol33 lif33 is basically just on33 giant shitpost” she’d said, feigning nonchalance, while trying to inconspicuously Goregle search “how to fxi alein” on her palmhusk.

Tagora hadn’t been at the office, having taken a “self-care day”. Tyzias had texted him anyways, commenting “i wwwwouldn’t be surprised if he’s mmmmuted all his notifications, but mmmmight as well”.

You’re nearing the outskirts of the subgrub, now. At the head of the group, Stelsa has been keeping a brisk pace, navigating the streets with the unfaltering ease of one who spends a good chunk of her free time jogging around the neighborhood. Tyzias is half-running to keep up with her at this point, wheezing a little. You would scoff at your peer’s show of weakness, but you’re beginning to feel a bit winded yourself, and Tirona’s quite a bit heavier than she looks. The fact that she occasionally smacks your ribs with a gleeful “giddyup” doesn’t help matters.

The familiar urban landscape begins to shrink around you, degrading into uneven rows of long-abandoned hives, some of which have the appearance of being steadily subsumed back into wilderness. Without looming stacks of buildings to cast a softening blanket of shadows over everything, the outskirts of the city seem so… _bare_. It’s late evening on a cloudless night, and so every half-collapsed hive and thickly charred hull stands out in stark relief beneath the moons.

You know the sight of these obliterated neighborhoods should fill you with a sense of satisfaction, as evidence of success on behalf of the justice system you and other members of your caste strive to uphold. You should feel proud and uplifted, convinced of the immutable righteousness of the Empire.

And yet, no matter how hard you try, all you can see is pure desolation. Not a triumph, but an emptiness that aches for healing.

Perhaps this feeling is natural, you reason. All true, great heroes must face some internal dissonance at some point in their lives, don’t they? Did not Troll Naruto falter on his path to becoming the Hokagarroter? Did not Troll Haruhi struggle to choose between her legislacerator training and filling her red quadrant? This…aberration in your usual thought process is simply an essential part of your character arc, that’s all.

“quit int33rnal-monologuing so loud” Tirona whines. “I can almost _h33ar_ you having an an33urism from h33r33.”

Before you can respond, you see another group of trolls approaching yours from another row of ruined buildings. The troll in the lead is waving at your group, which Stelsa mirrors enthusiastically as you all slow to a halt. She appears to have barely broken a sweat, whereas Tyzias is almost bent double, wheezing and clutching at her sides. You’re not as bad off, but you’re beginning to regret wearing your long black “serious business” coat on what is turning out to be a humid night.

You put Tirona down, deeming it a safe time to do so. She immediately pulls out her palmhusk to check her social media, muttering complaints about how bad the reception is out here.

The other group is comprised of five trolls: three jades with very different fashion sensibilities, a sleepy-looking olive in work clothes, and a small…prickly…_thing_ (???) perched atop the oliveblood’s shoulders. Whatever it is, it seems _very_ excited to be here.

“▼ shit, you teals _really_ have the hots for aliens, huh ▲” the nearest jadeblood states, by way of a greeting. Something about her—perhaps it’s the fashion style, or the performative slouch—seem oddly familiar to you.

“this isn’t even all of themmmm” Tyzias comments dryly, straightening up. “_sommmmeone_ picked today of all days to take a spa day”

“▼ and here I thought the _jades_ had it bad…▲ “

“OH YOU MUST BE DARAYA SUCH A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU DREADFULLY SORRY ABOUT THE LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING WE HAD EARLIER ITS SO LOVELY TO MEET YOU IN PERSON” Stelsa gushes, seizing the startled jade’s—Daraya’s?—hand and shaking it.

It clicks, suddenly. “Ah, Daraya!” you announce, drawing her startled gaze. “I _thought_ I reca//ed your face. Two sweeps ago, a rustb/ood ca//ed Ekusas used to host an anime club at a theater downtown—you were of its members, were you not?”

She looks momentarily confused, and then her eyes widen. “▼oh yeah, _that_ club. you were the sword guy, right ▲”

“Indeed, I am a practitioner of the East A/ternian b/ade.” you announce, with no small amount of pride, before asking a question that has plagued you for some time: “Why ever did you vanish from the c/ub? And c/ose your fanfiction account? It was quite the severe b/ow for our otaku brethren.”

Daraya’s face turns a darker and darker green the longer you talk. She glances furtively over her shoulder to where the other jades are stood right behind her; the tall, well-coiffed one is smirking, and the one in the sweater vest is looking sternly on with her arms crossed.

“▼i, uh ▲” Daraya coughs awkwardly, “▼my…lusus found out I’d been sneaking out to go to anime club, and she grounded me from ever going back ▲”

You nod solemnly. Ah, the ties of paternity/maternity. You yourself have had quite a number of disagreements with your own lusus, mostly over how he seems to view your painstakingly constructed zen garden as the perfect place to relieve himself.

You decide not to tell her this. No need to give a fellow otaku a reason to judge you.

After this, the lot of you set off for the alien’s hive, this time led by the oliveblood, who very briefly introduces themselves as Charun. As you walk, your two groups, now a joint group of nine, take stock of the supplies currently with you:

One (1) standard mediculler kit, courtesy of the jades;

Two (2) bottles of water, in case the alien is dehydrated or has major wounds in need of cleaning;

Two (2) fairly sturdy ropes;

One (1) set of ninja climbing gloves with tiny spikes on the palm side, intricately hand-crafted by the East Alternian masters of ninjutsu, which cost you a hefty sum online and which all three of your fellow teals, the backstabbers, proclaim to be fake,

Nine (9) fairly strong trolls, who, with their efforts combined, should be able descend the cliff, take apart the wrecked hull of the watchtower, and retrieve the alien.

Or, perhaps, whatever is left of them.

After taking inventory, the group lapses into silence, pressing towards the location of alien’s hive and, hopefully, the alien themselves.

You’re walking towards the back of the group when it happens, so you don’t immediately see what it is that makes Charun stop dead in their tracks; when Stelsa abruptly stops walking, you crash right into her and are then immediately bumped into from behind by Lanque and Tirona, eliciting several yelps and grumbles. You look up to see why it is you’ve stopped.

Your bloodpusher stops dead in your chest.

Less a hundred feet in front of your group, the rocky path is cut off by a sharp, steep drop. Standing right on the edge of the cliff, faced away from your group, is a culling drone.

Even from here, you can just faintly make out the low hum of its hemoscanner at work as its head rotates slowly back and forth, scanning something just beyond the edge of the cliff.

As you watch, the drone raises one arm, withdrawing its culling fork with a decisive _shunk_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ruh-roh


	7. Of Thoughtless Maneuvers and Technical Mishaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like, pretend that all culling drones have an in-built culling fork that slides out of one/both of their arms. I mean, they’d look kind of stupid if they were just carrying tridents constantly, right

Your name is DARAYA JONJET and you have no actual fucking clue what you’re supposed to do right now.

Everything had been going just _fine_. In fact, they’d been more than fine. You’d been on a fucking _roll_. Not only had you managed to psyche Lynera out of a murder funk, you’d also gotten Lanque out of bed before midnight _and_ used your connections to wrangle together a good-sized group of trolls in order to mount a rescue mission. All that in less than two hours. Bronya would be impressed—no, _stunned_.

You’d just been walking along, eight other trolls in tow, feeling oddly…_good_ about yourself? No, something more than that. You’d felt… comfortable and at ease in your own skin, as though you knew exactly who you were and what you were meant to be doing. The throng of anxieties and uncertainties that usually crowded your thinkpan had retreated to its periphery, as though frightened of this new brightness within you, a warm and floaty sort of feeling that made you somehow feel light and powerful at the same time.

If this is what it feels like to have a purpose, you’d thought, you’re beginning to see where Bronya is coming from with that responsibilities shtick. It feels good to have your bloodpusher _set_ on something, rather than just agonizing over all the shit you didn’t do.

For once in your life, you thought you’d finally managed to do something _right_.

And now, there is an actual, god-to-honest _culling drone_ less than a hundred feet in front of you.

You watch, frozen in shock and indecision, as a culling fork slides smoothly out of a compartment on its left arm, the three sharp tines twinkling in the moonlight.

A dark blur moves past you, and your eyes snap to it.

Karako is sprinting up the path towards the drone, a knife in each hand.

A feral screech tears itself from his throat as he hurls his tiny form at the drone’s back, knives-first. The blades aren’t nearly sharp enough to pierce the thing’s hull, but they leave behind two long, jagged scratches as they slide down the drone’s back. Karako tumbles to the ground and immediately scrambles up to mount another assault, but before he gets the chance, the drone is upon him.

With speed that seems unnatural for a creature of that size and bulk, the drone turns on the little purpleblood and seizes him in one clawed hand—thankfully, not the one from which a culling fork is currently extended. The drone is so much bigger than he is that the effect is almost comical, with Karako’s head and shoulders poking out from the top of the robot’s fist and only his frantically wiggling feet visible from the bottom. The drone raises its squirming captive up to helmet level, and you all hear the low hum of its hemoscanner.

After a few moments, the arm holding Karako begins lowering slightly. You hear Lynera utter a wordless sound of relief somewhere just outside your line of sight, and you release a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Never in your _life_ have you been more glad that Karako is a purpleblood.

Then the drone raises its other arm to level its culling fork directly at Karako’s head.

You’re running toward him without even thinking about it, your boots kicking up clouds of dust and gravel as you sprint up the path. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lynera following suit. The undisguised fear in her expression actually makes your bloodpusher jolt, briefly, before returning to its previous occupation of thundering in your ears.

Your mind whirls frantically, trying to think of something, _anything_ that would end this nightmare. Why is this _happening?_

As you near the edge, still bereft of any brilliant plans besides _I have to get him out_, someone grabs your shoulder to stop you before you run headfirst into the drone. You’re reasonably surprised to find that it’s Lanque. He must have followed you and Lynera. His eyes are locked on the tiny purpleblood in the drone’s fist, painted lips twisted into a scowl.

Huh. Well. If someone had asked you, a couple perigees earlier, who the _last_ two people you’d ever want to die alongside while fighting an imperial culling drone were, it’d probably be these two douchebags right here. Right now, though, it feels oddly right. 

“-excuse me !!!!!” Lynera pipes up, addressing the drone. Her voice is so high it’s practically a squeak, but at least it’s still audible. “-I believe !!! you may be !!! making a mistake !!!” She gestures to Karako. “-this is !!! clearly !!! a _purpleblood_ !!!”

The drone’s helmet swivels to look at her. “IMPERIAL SUBJECT HAS BEEN THUS DEEMED UNFIT FOR CONTINUED EXISTENCE.” It issues. “FAILURE TO CULL SUBJECT WILL CONTRIBUTE TO THE WEAKENING OF TROLLKIND.”

“on wwwwhat grounds?” Tyzias asks sharply, having somehow materialized right behind the three of you. Her usual sleepy demeanor has completely evaporated, and the effect is jarring. In her place stands a steely-eyed legislacerator, gaze so eviscerating you’re surprised the drone hasn’t started falling apart beneath it.

“AGGRESSOR HAS BEEN SURVEYED FOR TRAITS THAT MATCH CULLING PARAMETERS.” The robot issues, turning its focus towards the perceived newcomer.

“and wwwwhat parammmmeters wwwwould those be?” Tyzias asks, because apparently, she’s never heard of self-preservation. You’re considering tackling her to the ground before she gets culled, but to your surprise, the drone answers.

“OBSERVED: UNDERDEVELOPED SKELETAL STRUCTURE AND MUSCULE MASS. DATA ANALYSIS CONFIRMS WITH 96.4% ACCURACY THAT THE SUBJECT CAN BE IDENTIFIED AS A BIOLOGICAL RUNT.” The drone reports. Your eyes flick helplessly to where its fork is still pointed at Karako’s head. “THE SUBJECT HAS THUS BEEN DEEMED PHYSICALLY UNFIT FOR CONTINUED EXISTENCE.”

“96.4 PERCENT IS THAT SO” Stelsa is now at Tyzias’ side. “DO TELL WHAT THE ERROR BOUNDS FOR YOUR CALCULATIONS WERE IF YOU DONT MIND IM QUITE GOOD AT MATHEMASSACRES AND ID LIKE TO CHECK YOUR WORK”

“I AM NOT REQUIRED TO YIELD SOFTWARE DETAILS TO SUBJECTS RANKED LOWER THAN INDIGO.”

Oh, so _that’s_ why the drone had entertained their questions up to this point, you realize. Among other types of cases, teals with legislacerator training were taught to handle culling appeals. Since a large percentage of all cullings were carried out by drones, it’d make sense for teals to have special authorization to actually engage in information exchanges with drones while building their cases.

Hopefully that small amount of sway would be enough.

Tyzias backtracks. “of course, wwwwe understand if wwwwe’re not privy to that data. _howwwwever_, there exist certain precedents regarding the culling of trolls under a certain age.”

The drone is _actually lowering its culling fork now_, _holy shit_, this might actually work.

“STATE THE RECORD NUMBERS OF THE PERTINENT LEGISLACERATIONS.”

Tyzias does that and much more besides. There is, of course, no legislaceration out there that actually states something like “don’t cull wrigglers”, because what kind of shithole planet would this be if wrigglers _didn’t_ beef it on the reg? It’d be a planet fractionally more worth living on, for one thing.

You—and the rest of the group, probably, but you aren’t really paying much attention to them—watch as the scruffy tealblood carefully and elaborately constructs an argument based on this case here, that amendment there, this minor allowance over here, and so on, weaving together the miniscule threads to create a convincing-looking tapestry. At one point, she falters over the subsection number of a particularly relevant case, but Tegiri immediately fills in the blank. Between the two of them, the case begins shaping into something that’s actually solid.

You don’t fully follow all its nuances, but the gist of the argument is that there exists no evidence that Karako _isn’t_ just a normal troll still awaiting a major pupation, and therefore his “physical unfitness” is completely invalid until after said hypothetical pupation. Not to mention, Tyzias weaves, the fact of his survival at his age indicates there was no identifiable signs of physical deformity immediately post-hatching, else he would have been culled as a grub, correct? Which may lead one to postulate that he is simply pre-maturation and not naturally small. (You know for a fact this is bullshit. Karako had been the smallest purpleblood grub the caverns had ever seen, overlooked by the lusii because they hadn’t even _seen_ him there. Him being alive at his age is purely Bronya’s doing.)

It’s a pretty good case, but you don’t let yourself feel too assured. Your eyes flick back and forth between the teals and the culling fork still withdrawn at the drone’s side.

The drone doesn’t cut in once during the explanation, only stands idle and silent, arms hanging at its sides. You spot Karako, still firmly held in the drone’s claw, still trying fruitlessly to wriggle his way to freedom. Hopefully he isn’t too bruised up. Bronya will _kill_ you. Well, no, technically Karako was Lynera’s responsibility, but Lynera will probably cry if Bronya scolds her, and that’s uncomfortable for _everyone_, so it’ll probably be you that gets the scolding.

Finally, the drone speaks. “YOUR APPEAL HAS BEEN NOTED.” It blares. “IF APPROVED BY THE CULLING REGULATIONS COUNCIL, APPROPRIATE ALTERATIONS WILL BE MADE TO PARAMETERS OF FUTURE CULLINGS.”

Wait. _Future _cullings?

Your gaze locks onto the culling fork just as it begins to rise again. _Shit!_

You’re moving before you can even process the stupidity of what you’re doing, wrapping both arms around the culling drone’s arm from the side and jerking it back with all the strength you can muster. The arm jerks sharply in your hold, causing your cheek to slam against metal, but you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, straining to keep the weapon-bearing limb immobilized. “▲▲▲ GET KARAKO _OUT _▼▼▼” you manage to shout over the ringing in your ears.

Some small part of you is marveling at how you’ve gotten this far without getting turned into a jade splatter on the ground. Another, more reasonable part reminds you that this is only because the drone has only two hands and Karako is in the other one; it also reminds you that this culling drone is like, ten feet tall and also much much stronger than you are.

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see Stelsa and Lanque trying to pry open the drone’s other hand, which it mercifully doesn’t seem to notice, probably because it’s trying to shake off the jadeblood clinging stubbornly to its other arm. For how much longer, you have no idea. Every one of the muscles in your arms and back feels like it’s on fire as you do your level best to yank the drone’s arm off its body.

Apparently, it’s not enough (because when has anything you’ve done _ever _been enough?). The drone’s arm moves inexorably upwards against your hold. You grit your teeth and hang on, even as you feel your feet beginning to leave the ground. You hear multiple voices shouting, and, above all of them, Lynera screaming—at you or at the drone, you have no way of knowing. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut and hope that whatever death you’ve just earned yourself is, at the very least, brief.

The drone shudders once and falls completely still.

A moment passes.

The robot does not move.

A few more seconds squeeze by. Hesitantly, you crack open one eye.

You regret this choice of action immediately, because Lynera’s face is _right there._

Before you can say a word or protest, Lynera is dragging you down and away from the drone by the waist, her sharp claws digging into your sides. You honestly feel too shell-shocked to resist her, considering you’d just been approximately one second away from beefing it.

You turn your head just in time to see the suddenly-frozen drone’s fist pop open, and Karako tumbles out, letting out a stream of furious honks. Lanque unceremoniously grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him back.

It slowly dawns on you, then. Well, shit. The tealbloods must have actually managed to use their legislaterator mumbo-jumbo to shut that thing the fuck down. You’d just been overreacting, of course.

However, as you and Lynera approach the rest of the group, you can _immediately _see that’s not the case. Across the four other trolls’ faces is a wide array of emotions, none of them suggesting anything along the lines of “hell yes, we managed to stop a culling via use of our incredible intellects and knowledge of Alternian law, great job team”.

The tiny tealblood finds her voice first. “what just happ33ned?” she shrills. “why did the dron33 freeze up? th33y’r33 not suppos33d to do that!”

“▼▼ yeah, no shit, tiny ▲▲” you say, more roughly than intended. “▼ let’s just get the alien and get out of here before that thing starts moving again ▲”

“Are we not going to address the fact that the two of you attempted to assau/t a drone? Are you not aware—" Tegiri begins, a bit shakily, before Stelsa turns on him with anger in her eyes. “OUR PRIMARY CONCERN IS STILL OUR ALIEN FRIEND UNLESS YOUVE FORGOTTEN THAT FACT TEGIRI YOU CAN SAVE YOUR VIGILANTE ACT FOR A MORE APPROPRIATE TIME”

“Besides, if the drone already saW you, you’Ve probably already been marked as an accomplice anyWays,” observes Lanque, who apparently just needs to be the biggest asshole in the room at all times.

Tegiri’s response is cut off by a loud and frantic “HONK!!!” from Karako, who’s staring wide-eyed at something behind you. Oh shit oh shit ohshit is the drone—

You quickly spin around and see that the drone is still frozen unnaturally in place.

What’s changed is this: standing less than a foot away from it, gazing up at the drone with a thoughtful tilt to their head, is Charun.

When did they even…?

As you watch, they oliveblood wordlessly begins steadily climbing their way up the drone, using the seams between armor plates as handhelds. Their movements are swift and calculated, totally unlike those you would expect of the slow, sleepy troll you’d met in the caverns. As they carefully pull themselves up onto one of the drone’s thickly spiked pauldrons, you catch a glimpse of their face; it’s unreadable, and for the first time since you met them, they look completely calm.

You find your voice again as Charun clambers up onto the drone’s spiked shoulders. “▼▼ hey—CHARUN! what are you—▲▲” 

Your words fail you yet again as you watch the oliveblood, now standing with one foot planted on either side of the drone’s head, bends down, hooks their gloved hands beneath the rim of the drone’s spiked helmet on either side, and _pulls_. There’s a long cree-a-k, and then, with little ceremony or fanfare, the drone’s head is in Charun’s hands.

Its _entire fucking head_.

The frozen drone sways, its balance upset by both the loss of its head and the additional weight of an oliveblood troll. The motion seems to snap Charun out of whatever funk they were just in. They look around them, seemingly confused, as though entirely sure as to how they ended up atop a headless culling drone, while also holding said head, which is dripping some viscous fuel source onto their work gloves.

At the sound of a half-dozen shouts of warning from you and the other trolls, Charun quickly scrambles back down, a task made difficult by the additional burden they’re carrying. Not two seconds after they hit the ground, the drone sways back and forth and finally topples over the edge of the cliff.

A loud _crunch_ sounds from down below.

You sprint closer to peer over the edge, bloodpusher caught in your throat. Thankfully, the drone didn’t land on top of the wrecked watchtower. As morbid a sense of humor the universe seems to have, apparently that one would have been just too much of a low-hanging fruit.

The other trolls join you at the edge, and you all stand in silence for a little while, staring down at the twisted mass of limbs that was once an imperial culling drone.

“_well that = pretty fucked up;” _comments a voice emanating directly from the drone head still in Charun’s arms.

“wwwwhat the—“ “▼▼ holy _shit_▲▲“ “-WHAT !?! WHO ?!?” “hoW—?” “HONK !!!!!” “cou/d it be the drone isn’t—” “OH MY GOODNESS” “…what…?” “pl33ase don’t hurt m33 I was just following th33m I sw33ar—"

“_easy, easy” _the voice says, chuckling. “_this != the drone; im a hacker; and a mutual friend;”_

“-were you ?? controlling that drone ??” demands Lynera. You can see that stabbing itch of hers beginning to show, and you catch yourself half-hoping that the hacker says something stupid so you can witness Lynera Skalbi try to stab what is essentially in an inanimate object.

“_only for the last minute unfortunately; sorry it took me so long; i should have started checking drone-cams the minute my little robo-buddy didnt answer my call;” _says the troll on the other end of the line, and the remorse in their voice is so genuine that you see Lynera stop reaching for her knife. “_anyways; good job junking the drone; although i doubt it will make much of a difference in what happens next;”_

“▼ when what happens next? ▲” you echo, dread snaking its way into your stomach.

Some clacking noises in the background, like someone typing rapidly, and then the voice speaks again. “_okay so; there = good news, great news, and bad news;” _The voice says, tone more serious than before. “_good news = this; thanks to the shitty reception out there; which = coincidentally the same reason this hack took so long; most of the information the drone recorded was able to get was still waiting to be sent; i intercepted the messages the minute i hacked in; no need to worry about your signs and caste names being reported to the empire for treason; youre welcome”_

You feel the group collectively sigh in relief.

“_the great news is; robobuddy || the alien dude = still alive and kicking; im looking at the drones hemoscans on my screen right now; you should probably get them out asap;” _the voice states, and before you can allow yourself to feel joy at this news, they continue: “_heres the bad news; like i said; the hack took too long; i wasn’t able to block _all_ the data the drone sent back to culling hq; and im pretty sure things arent going to be looking too good for robobuddy pretty soon;”_

Some more clacking noises, and then, “_robobuddy’s hemoscans were reported to the main system the culling drones use; which isnt too big a deal; except that the drone’s disappearance = going to be investigated; and now it = at the bottom of a cliff; near the spot where it recorded robobuddy’s hemodata; so im pretty sure you guys can guess what this means;”_

You absolutely _can_ guess what it means, but the hacker says it anyways.

“_our little friend = probably about to get investigated for killing a culling drone;”_

________________________________________________________________

Your name is MSPA READER, you guess, and you’re awoken _very_ rudely from your concussion-nap by a the sound of something hitting the ground nearby with a very loud _crunch_.

You jolt upright and nearly brain yourself on metal. Oh, right, silly you, you’re trapped in a small enclosed space, buried under a ton of rubble. Wait, what?

Now more fully awake than when you’d awoken before, you pat the pockets of your hoodie to find your palmhusk—only to find nothing but some used tissues, a candy wrapper, and slip of paper with a phone number on it (it’s just Zebruh’s. he’s constantly getting blocked, so every few months he gets a new number and then immediately goes around slipping it into people’s pockets, apparently trying to be _coy_ instead of just saying he changed his number like a normal person).

Drat. You must have left your palmhusk on the charger. Hopefully, it’s still in one piece.

For now, all you can really do wait for… _something_ to happen. Despite the fact that you’re not altogether fond of dark spaces or closed spaces, you feel oddly at ease. After all, you have friends, don’t you? They’ll definitely come looking for you, eventually, and when they do, you’ll all be able to laugh this off.

And so, you lay your probably-concussed self back down, and allow your battered form to slip gratefully back into the inky cradle of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways dont mind me i'm just over here, still reeling over the fact that charun is canonically a rage player


	8. Of Quadranted Confusion and Questionable Cahoots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for the comments yall; they really brighten up my day

Your name is MALLEK ADALOV and you are definitely and most decidedly not freaking out right now.

Absolutely not.

It’s just not a thing you _do_.

It’s like this: the way your work schedule is, you just don’t have the time or thinkpan space to spare for emotional meltdowns. Dealing with emotional shit is just plain exhausting. Much more time-efficient to box that shit up and tuck it away somewhere.

You’ve managed to make it pretty good as a hacker—_information specialist_, heh— out on the ‘net, thanks to the connections you’ve managed to create and carefully cultivate over the sweeps. It’s not a profession typically expected of a cerulean, but you’re pretty rightfully proud of the skills you’ve developed.

And if there’s anything your experience as a hacker has taught you, it’s the value of keeping a cool head. When you’re working night and day at multiple husktops, juggling half a dozen different data retrieval jobs at once, dodging imperial firewalls and security bots, and staring down the barrel of a deadline only a few hours away, being able to stay focused on what’s important has been—very literally—a lifesaver for you.

And what’s important right now_,_ clearly, is your alien buddy’s safety, and _not_ the fact that you may or may not be freaking out just a tiny little bit.

You’re reclining with what is definitely not forced casualness in your desk chair, fingers tapping idly on the desk in front of your keyboard as you watch the three screens you have hooked up.

On the far-right screen is the chat client you use. The only chat box you have currently open is the one you use to talk to your little alien friend; their username is greyed out, and the only recent messages in the chat are couple of <strike>frantic</strike> messages from you, all sent in the last hour, all marked “unread”.

On the far-left screen are the remnants of your most recent drone-hacking jaunt; arrayed across the screen are the unsent hemoscans you managed to intercept, displaying the faces and caste signs of nine trolls, some of which you know, some of which you don’t. There’s a tenth scan there, as well, displayed front and center—the only one you couldn’t prevent being sent out. No picture, just a thermal scan of a small shape curled in on itself beneath a huge dark mass, with temperature readings identifying it as a likely mutant lowblood. You staunchly ignore the sudden ache in your chest at the words “IMMEDIATE CULLING AUTHORIZED” beneath the picture.

Displayed on the screen immediately before you is a live video feed, broadcasting from a location somewhere just outside the city limits. The scene is as follows: about a dozen meters away from the camera, which is set on the ground, a large, misshapen shape that looks like it was once a building lies sideways on the ground, resting at the foot of a craggy rock face. Milling around it are a group of figures, all of which appear to be trying to gain access to the structure. They’re all out of audio range, but occasionally one of the trolls will yell for another to help them move some piece of rubble, registering as a faint burst of static on your speakers.

The quality is pretty grainy, and it’s only been getting worse over the last few minutes, which makes sense considering that the culling drone helmet it’s being broadcast from is currently detached from said drone’s body. (On some level, you’re still reeling from that.) Your knowledge of culling drones’ innards begins and ends with software, but from what little you know of robotics, you’d guess that the viewport in the helmet was powered by some fuel source elsewhere in the drone’s body, and despite its separation from the source, it’s still got a little juice left before it dies.

Which, coincidentally, reminds you of another hacker you know. A pair of hackers, actually.

You turn your gaze briefly from the video feed over to chat client screen and check if the troll with the tag pwnageGenerator is online. Their tag is greyed out, but you click it anyways, popping open another chat window and shooting off a quick message that goes along the lines of “hey, you ever consider hacking the culling records system?”

In hindsight, it’s probably not the safest thing to ask this _particular_ troll about this, but hey, gotta start somewhere. There’s another burst of static, and you quickly turn back to the video feed of your robobuddy’s other friends taking apart their old hive. It looks like they’ve actually managed to pop open a section of the hull, exposing a dark interior. As you watch, one of the trolls begins carefully making their way inside.

You catch yourself leaning forward and stop yourself just before your nose hits the screen.

As you watch, two more trolls vanish into the collapsed watchtower, while the others—you included—wait for them to re-emerge. A minute passes, then two, then three, then five. The seconds inch by like a row of bloated gripeworms dragging acid trails across your forehead. You catch yourself wishing you could just reach through the screen and head in there yourself, instead of just _sitting_ here, waiting for someone you don’t even know to re-appear with your friend’s small, frail, unmoving body in their arms—

Out of nowhere, you feel something smooth and heavy slither up your back to drape itself around your shoulders; you startle, briefly, before realizing it’s just your lusus. You hadn’t even heard him approaching.

“whats up;” you greet your guardian. He affectionately butts his head against your cheek, before turning to look at your current setup of screens. He looks back at you inquiringly.

“not much; robobuddy got into some trouble; same old same old; itll all work out;” you say, more to convince yourself than Snakedad. “just waiting for updates now;” you add, stifling a yawn. Big mistake. You see Snakedad’s eyes narrow a little before hisses in stern fatherly disapproval.

“yeah yeah i know; ill go to sleep soon;” you whine. The tip of your lusus’ tail flicks you just beneath the chin. “ow; okay fine; i _promise_;”

You’d tried, time and time again, to explain that 1) hacking takes a hell of a lot of time, and 2) you’re old enough not to need as many hours in the recuperacoon each day, but Snakedad wouldn’t hear a word of it. All these sweeps later, he still seems to view you as a fussy little wriggler who won’t go to sleep when told. It’s hella annoying at times, especially when you have deadlines coming up, but kind of sweet all the same.

You turn your attention back to the video feed. The quality is even worse now, straight-up glitching at sporadic intervals. From what you can still see, there’s still no sign of anything emerging from the watchtower, alive or otherwise.

The longer the wait goes on, the harder it is for you to keep still; the tapping of your fingers on the desk has now extended to one of your legs, which is bouncing idly against the floor. Ten full minutes drag by and your thinkpan is screaming with impatience. Frustration painfully squeezes your bloodpusher and prickles at the corners of your eyes.

What is _wrong _with you? Your friend is probably perfectly fine, right? Of course, they’re probably a little banged-up, but hey, that’s basically them on a regular basis. Hell, their hive collapsing on them and toppling off a cliff is probably one of the _less_ harrowing experiences they’ve had since landing on Alternia. They’re fine. _You’re_ fine. Everything’s fine.

You take a deep breath and blink several times, trying to keep composed. Snakedad, because he’s basically the best lusus ever, immediately seems to sense your distress, curling more snugly around your shoulders and squeezing slightly in his best approximation of a hug.

“thanks;” you murmur, lightly petting his scales. “i honestly dont know why im getting so worked up; its literally nothing; im probably just too tired to think properly;”

Your lusus raises his head to look you dead in the eye and gives you a Look.

“what = that supposed to mean;”

Your lusus ducks his head down to flick the point of his tongue against the sign on the front of your hoodie. He raises up again to give you another, longer, Look.

Your sign? What does this have to do with your—oh. _Ohhh_.

“it != like that;” you retort, immediately. “they just needed some dry clothes; and I have a ton of hoodies; it doesnt mean anything;”

Snakedad gives you a look that suggests that, if snakes could roll their eyes, he’d be doing it.

“dont look at me like that; were just friends; this = just” you wave at your assortment of screens, “cuz i dont have anything else going on right now; that’s really all there = to say on the matter;”

You’re very much aware of the fact that you are lying to your lusus’ face right now, and honestly, you’re not even sure why. Snakedad, who can probably see through your bullshit from a mile away, seems to take mercy on you, lightly headbutting your nose by way of apology. It helps.

“im not looking for any redrom stuff anyways;” you eventually huff, without even thinking about it. You turn pointedly back to the video feed.

Then you realize what it is you’ve just said.

It begins to dawn on you that maybe, possibly, the emotions that have been beating the shit out of your bloodpusher over the last half-hour as you obsessed over your alien friend’s safety aren’t purely of the platonic variety.

You turn your head slowly to look at Snakedad, who looks impossibly smug.

“dont you dare;” you warn, just as another burst of static comes through your speakers, only this time the static is shaped a lot more like actual words.

“_h33y, hack33r dud33, you still th33r33?” _sounds a shrill voice as the smallest out of the four tealbloods appears at the edge of the screen.

You switch your mic on, grateful for the distraction. “yeah; what = happening;”

“s_t33lsa just s33nt m33 a t33xt. sh33 said to t33ll you th33y just found the ali33n.”_

Your bloodpusher, the treacherous worm, nearly leaps out of your chest.

“_y33ah, sh33—……th33y’re kind o—…… gon—…...” _Shit, the static’s getting really bad now. The video feed is getting bad, too; you squint at the screen, trying to see the entrance of the hive, but it’s all dissolving into ribbons of oscillating pixels. “cant hear you;” you shout, uselessly, into the mic.

There’s two loud staticky thumps that suggest that someone’s smacking the drone helmet, and then the audio comes back, if for but a few moments.

_“— take th33m to h33r and tizzy’s hiv33 asap”_

“ok; thanks; that = in the tealblood block right;” you immediately reply. “ill be there soon;”

The audio cuts out before you can get a response. The video feed is completely garbled at this point, all meaningless shapes and colors. Well, shit.

On the plus side, you know your flushcru—_friend_ is in safe hands, and, thanks to the drone’s hemoscan files—which include the names and addresses of the nine trolls it was able to identify on sight— you’ll know exactly where they’ll be within the next few minutes.

As you go to switch off the monitors and wipe out any remaining evidence of your hacks, it hits you. Shit, why didn’t you get any of their palmhusk numbers? That would’ve been way easier. This is what happens when you get all worked up over a cute ali—ah, shit, you’re doing it again.

You give your lusus a quick boop on the snout with your nose before standing to go get ready to leave. Your lusus slides off your shoulders after returning the boop, slithering off to somewhere deeper in the hive.

You grab an old husktop bag you don’t use much anymore and stuff it with some rolls of bandages you’d had stashed away, a handful of snack pouches, and, as an afterthought, a clean hoodie with your sign on it. You’re making your way towards the exit, already punching the address into Goregle Maps, when a _ping_ alerts you to a new message. You open the app version of your chat client to find it’s from pwnageGenerator.

PG: >you want to hack the culling db? lololol  
PG: >lemme guess  
PG: >you fucked up a hack like a total noob  
PG: >and now youre on the cull list lololol  
SB: in your dreams haha;  
SB: we both know im better at this than you are;  
PG: >says the scrub who accidentally erased his own citizen data while trying to change his grades lololol  
SB: hacks from schoolfeeding days dont count;  
SB: unless you want me to bring up *your* old coding from three sweeps ago;  
PG: >good luck on that one lololol, i buried that shit under so many encryptions itll take the rest of your life  
SB: oh so theyre still out there huh;  
SB: interesting;  
PG: >try all you like you fuckin casual  
PG: >my old codes are still way better than yours are now lololol  
PG: >come at me bro  
SB: yeah maybe later;  
SB: full offense;  
SB: but i have a way more interesting problem to deal with right now;  
SB: it involves our alien friend and a destroyed drone;  
PG: >oh that shit happened ages ago  
SB: wait what;  
PG: >some hbs who couldnt take a fucking joke called the drones on me and fol and them like a million perigees ago  
PG: >drone dispatched by yours truly  
PG: >youre welcome lololol  
SB: no;  
SB: this = something different;  
SB: that = just street level shit;  
SB: this = empire level shit;  
PG: >wtf  
SB: a drone got a lock on the alien and filed them as a mutant;  
SB: theyre gonna get listed in the db as a high priority culling target;  
PG: >fuck  
SB: so;  
SB: hurts to admit it but;  
SB: i might need your help;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this nervous little punk boy...


	9. Interlude: Of Consequences, Several

Somewhere, on a highly secure server, there exists a vast database containing the records of nearly every troll on the surface of Alternia. It’s a fairly accessible resource; any troll can access their own personal records within the database simply by entering their caste sign and id.

This is, however, not the database to be concerned with right now. At this specific moment in time, we shall turn our collective gaze to its neighbor: an equally vast database in an equally secure server, containing the records of every soon-to-be-_ex_-troll on Alternia, colloquially referred to as the culling database.

It is, of course, not nearly as publicly accessible. It would be highly convenient if every troll slated for culling was aware of that particular fact.

Among all the other files in this database, one stands out like a sore thumb. The picture is a blurred shot of a small, oddly nondescript figure, wrapped in what looks to be a tattered bathrobe. They are in the street, half turned away from the camera, being pulled away by a hooded figure wearing a gold caste sign.

Below the picture are the following details, or rather, lack thereof:

__

NAME: UNKNOWN

AGE: UNKNOWN

CASTE: UNKNOWN/HEMONYMOUS

AFFILIATES: UNKNOWN

CRIMINAL OFFENSES: [REDACTED] by LL Kasund, T.

CULLING PRIORITY: LOW—MEDIUM

__

It’s a largely inoffensive record. If ever scanned and recognized by a drone, the owner of the profile probably wouldn’t even be culled on-site, just confronted with threats of obliteration should they ever step out of line.

_Click!_

The file updates.

__

NAME: UNKNOWN

AGE: UNKNOWN

CASTE: CONFIRMED BLOOD MUTATION, HUE #FF0800

AFFILIATES: UNKNOWN

CRIMINAL OFFENSES: [REDACTED] by LL Kasund, T. | EXTREME PROXIMITY TO DISAPPEARANCE OF CULLING DRONE NO. 111111; INVESTIGATION PENDING

CULLING PRIORITY: MEDIUM—HIGH

__

Elsewhere, a troll named KUPRUM MAXLOL is hunkered over a pilfered husktop in a back alley, working steadily but agonizingly slowly through the cybersecurity measures of the culling database. He is the first to see the profile change.

“>looks like snakey wasnt lying out his ass” he cackles to his moirail (?). “>mfw some noob needs you hack their pityfriend off the imperial chopping block lololol”

Said moirail (?), FOLYKL DARANE, cackles as well, before stopping abruptly, nostrils twitching. “dude is something burning”

“>shitty husktops probably overheating” explains Kuprum, typing away furiously. “>how hard can it possibly be to change someones caste” he complains. His typing speed, impossibly, intensifies. So does the smell.

Abruptly, the screen of the husktop flashes, a blinding light that makes Kuprum hiss and instinctively shield his eyes. Folykl swiftly dives forward, seizes the husktop, and flings it away with as much strength as she can muster.

The device explodes in mid-air, showering the alley in neon green sparks.

“nice going genius” snarks Folykl, plucking scraps of metal casing out of her moirail’s hair.

“>not my fault” groans Kuprum, rubbing his bi-colored eyes until the bright spots go away. “>what kind of idiot fuckbulge even uses self-destruct codes anymore >thats such an old meme”

“apparently the government does”

“>tfw its confirmed everyone who codes for the government is a huge fucking normie”

“well that explains why you’re planning to work for them someday huh ” teases Folykl, taking advantage of her position to give Kuprum a noogie and then scuttling back up to her perch before he can return the favor. “so what now”

“>if adalov thinks im gonna admit hes a better hacker >im gonna zap all of his piercings individually”

“gross I’m talking about the cullbait, not your hatefriend”

Kuprum shrugs helplessly, “>idk >i could go around frying every drone in the subgrub before any of them spot the alien >but thats so basic”

“it’s also super dumb”

“>YOURE super dumb”

“just _tell_ snakeboy you messed up the hack thing” growls Folykl. Kuprum bristles at this idea. ">and give him more ammo to use against me >no thanks"

Sensing her moirail’s agitation, the Folykl reaches down to press her grimy palm against his cheek. She can feel a low thrum emanating from beneath her partner’s skin, a sign his psiionics have slightly activated due to his heightened emotions. She keeps talking, slowly sapping away the excess energy, “adalov doesn't know for sure the alien is already on the high priority list— it's good intel, doofus” She emphasizes the last word with a poke to his cheek.

Kuprum brightens up at this—literally and figuratively. “>LOL can you imagine if he actually had to thank me >the clout would be so worth it” he snickers, already digging out his palmhusk to tell the cerulean hacker the news.

__

Elsewhere, deep in the urban area of Outglut, a figure, perched unseen on the edge of a rooftop, watches the street intently from beneath the brim of a grey fedora. If one should dare to trace this figure’s gaze, they would see a gaggle of trolls moving swiftly and intently down the sidewalk towards one of the hives reserved for tealbloods.

The trolls are carefully keeping some distance between them from each other in order to appear like two or three smaller groups rather than one large, suspicious group, but their collusion is betrayed by the way they all keep glancing toward a cloth-wrapped bundle clutched tightly by one of the teals.

If one were a gifted observer—which this one most certainly is—they would see, partially sticking out of the bundle, a leg. The leg is uncannily nondescript (yet somehow, very alluring), albeit a number of heavy bruises.

The watcher’s eyes narrow.

__

Elsewhere, the self-appointed head of the jadeblood caverns arrives home after a long, taxing early-night supply run. Despite being overladen with a truly back-breaking number of grocery bags, her stride is strong and purposeful as she walks into the cool, dim tunnels; behind her trails her companion on this particular trip, a much smaller jade who is struggling to heft the one bag she’s been given care of.

Despite what the number of bags would suggest, the supply run had not been as successful as Bronya had hoped, due to the fires at the marketplace; some of the food materials vital to the mother grub’s upkeep have yet to be replenished. The jade matriarch is exhausted, frustrated, and a little bit angry.

In a few minutes’ time, shortly after asking about the whereabouts of four specific trolls, she is going to be much, _much_ angrier.

__

Elsewhere, a tealblood legislacerator will make the mistake of checking his palmhusk for texts while enjoying a peaceful bubble bath and face mask. He stands so quickly that he nearly floods his ablutionblock.

__

Elsewhere, a famous Duel Strifers duo is very surprised to see a familiar face appear among the other jobs on a mercenary message board, posted by an imperial bot.

__

Elsewhere, a lone wolf mercenary sees the same post and nearly drops her palmhusk into a gutter.

__

Elsewhere, all across the subgrub of Outglut, a great number of people who have never met find themselves caught in the glimmering threads of fate as they weave themselves into a new design. This design is such that they will soon find themselves swept up in unwanted moral conflicts, shattering self-realizations, painfully awkward interactions, general idiocy, dramatic confrontations, emotional turmoil, and shenanigans galore.

This design is, of course, FRIENDSHIP.

__

Elsewhere, the unwitting mastermind behind this grand tapestry of FRIENDSHIP sleeps soundly on a couch in the Seyzat—Entykk household, dreaming of wandering a vast green manor house with halls that seem to go on forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this was supposed to be a chill n easy chapter to work on but kuprum and folykl's dialogue was somehow the hardest thing I've ever had to write


	10. Of Entrances, Expected And Otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meme gremlin time

Your name is TIRONA KASUND and you’re beginning to wonder, vaguely, if you’ve hit a bit of a career slump.

It’s not that Trizza’s oh-so-noble features are failing to inspire your art as they once did before. How could anyone look at that condescending smirk and _not_ feel the need to conform? No, it’s just this _culture_ that’s the problem! All the memes trending on Chittr these days are just too _bluh_ to work your magic on, you note as you scroll carelessly through your feed. Only the finest and dankest of memes can withstand your patented memeaganda makeover.

You pause, briefly, on a meme that depicts a sour-faced purrbeast with an adorable pout. The top caption, in blocky letters, reads “GOT YOU A GIFT FOR 12TH PERIGEES EVE”, and the bottom caption finishes it off with “IT’S IN THE LOAD GAPER”.

Ah, Grumpy Purrbeast, you master of subtle comedy, you. You screenshot the meme, more for sentimental reasons than work reasons. Who knows, you’ll think of something pro-empire to add to it later. Just because it’s an old meme doesn’t mean it’s not _good_. And sometimes…new memes…are worse.

You spend a couple more minutes scrolling and find yourself at the bottom of your feed. You hit the refresh button for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes, and just like every other time, the page loads more slowly than a woolbeast on sopor. While the images load, pixel by painful pixel, you glance up from your phone to scan the room.

It’s pretty much the same as it looked when you last glanced up, like, five minutes ago.

Practically right next to you, there’s two of the jades, who you have mentally dubbed Lanky and Lyn, crouched beside the loungeplank on which everyone’s mutual friend has been situated, an open medicull kit on the ground between them. At this precise moment in time, it looks like they’re swabbing a shallow cut on the alien’s right arm.

From where you’re currently located—perched atop one of the arms of the very same loungeplank—you can catch scraps of the occasional terse mutter between them, mostly stuff like “no, that’s burn cream, you oaf, We need disinfectant” or “-hold it still, its !! bleeding !! again !!”. It’s all very awkward and inefficient. They remind you of a meme, kind of. Two jades, chillin’ in a lounge block, two feet apart ‘cuz they’re not pitch. Ew, older trolls can be so _weird_.

Back when all of you had first arrived at Stels and Tizzy’s hive, you’d offered to help, despite having absolutely no medicull expertise; you’d mostly just wanted something useful to after being essentially treated like dead weight during the rescue op. It still rankles, a little bit. Why does everyone treat you like a stupid little pupa? You’re almost_ five sweeps old_! You could _totally_ do stuff like talk to drones and navigate broken-down buildings and patch up injuries and _walk _a couple miles, but will anyone _let_ you? No! (Although, the oinkbeastback ride Stelsa had given you on the way back to Outglut had been pretty nice.)

Looking at them now, you’re actually pretty glad that Lyn and Lanky declined your help, considering they don’t even seem to get along with each other, let alone a stranger. You glance over to where the alien’s face is visible above the three different blankets they have layered atop them.

The alien looks pretty rough, even for _them_; you feel a flip-flop in your acid tract as you look at their bruised face and the swollen bump on their forehead, now largely covered by a towel-wrapped lump of ice. The worst injuries you’ve seen on trolls have been in the mugshots and crime scene pictures they show on the screen whenever you have to go over old cases for schoolfeeds. You’ve never seen that kind of damage on a real-life person before. In the words of the all-knowing, omnipresent teal consultyrant Maerie Kondoh, the sight does _not_ spark joy.

You’d known they were off-spectrum—of _course_ aliens would have different blood, _duh_— but the bright purples and pinks and reds of the bruises are still startling. You’ve never met a seadweller in person before, and you wonder, idly, if their blood colors are similar. It’d be pretty funny if an alien somehow got casted as a seadweller. Maybe not meme-worthy, but at the very least shitpost-worthy.

The jades’ bickering is starting to give you secondhand discomfort, so you turn to look at the rest of the room. In one of the corners of the lounge block is the purple who almost got culled earlier. He’s sat facing the wall in time-out, at Lyn’s command, which had been issued the _minute_ you all entered the apartment. For someone who tried to stab a drone earlier, he’s handling the time-out extremely well—a veteran’s ease, perhaps—and is using one of Stels’ sticky-note pads to decorate the detached drone head, making singsong little honking noises as he peppers the spiked helmet with colorful squares. Weird flex, but okay.

Teggy’s still gone. He’d left without a word the instant you all reached the hive, muttering to himself like a weirdo, probably having a moral crisis after seeing some mutual friends of his take out a culling drone. You personally don’t care about a single drone getting scrapped; it happens literally _all the time_! The empire has a ton of them anyways! Besides, even if that nice hacker _hadn’t_ graciously wiped your face from its memory, you can wipe your crime record clean literally any time you want. But hey, if that weeb over there wants to fry his thinkpan trying to reconcile with grey morality, that’s none of your business.

(You and Teggy get along okay, but things between you have been tense ever since you proudly showed him one of your memeaganda pieces, adapted from the Choking Troll Sasuke meme, which he’d taken high offense to. He’d even written a comment on your post berating you for “defiling a sacred icon”. Pssshhht, lame!)

If you lean slightly back and to see through the open doorway to the meal block, there’s Stels, Tizzy, and the cool jadeblood chick who’d tried to arm-wrestle a culling drone, the latter two talking in low voices while Stels bangs a lot of pots and pans around. You something edible comes out of…whatever she’s doing.

The lethargic oliveblood—Charun?—is there too, quietly chopping some ingredients Stels probably shoved in their direction, while the auditerrorizer chatters in their direction (“YOU SIMPLY MUST ALLOW ME TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR HAIR AND NAILS MY DEAR THEY LOOK AS THOUGH THEYVE NEVER SEEN A GROOMING KIT”). You’re not really sure what _that_ one’s deal is. They seemed pretty freaked by what they did to that drone, but that’s about as much of a read you got on them before they clammed up. You’re pretty sure they would have just fled into the wilderness if the others hadn’t persuaded them to stay.

You glance back down to your palmhusk to find that the new Chittr memes have loaded, thank _everything_. You settle comfortably back onto your perch and return to mindless scrolling.

You’re pleased to see some pro-empire memes mixed into this new batch—clearly, this new field you’ve pioneered is really gaining some ground—although these memes, not being of _your_ make, lack the certain degree of refinery that defines a work truly deserving of being called memeaganda. Grimly, you launch yourself into the comments section and begin dispensing a short essay’s worth of constructive criticism. After all, if memeaganda is to survive out in the trenches of social media posting, its forces must be strong and adaptable!

While you’re typing, you see, out of the corner of your eye, the cool jade with the spiky wristbands—Dayara? Damana? whatever, let’s just call her Spiky—walking out of the nutrition block to approach the other two jades. She clears her mealtunnel loudly to get their attention. “▼ uh, hey, so, how’s… ▲” She flaps a hand in the direction of the lump of bruises on the loungeplank. “▼ …you know ▲”

“-it will take some more time ! but ! i have definitely seen worse !” Lyn replies confidently, and Spiky snorts in response, “▼ yeah, ‘cuz you _stab_ people, like, every other day ▲”, prompting a snicker from Lanky.

You mostly tune out the rest of their conversation—it’s mostly passive-aggressive banter— and focus on your meme critiques, right up until Spiky says something that makes both the other jades react _very_ badly. Specifically, Lanky responds with anger, and Lyn just starts…hysterically crying a little bit? It’s extremely uncomfortable to be within a few feet of. You missed what it was Spiky said, but you think she might have called their lusus and told them where they were? Whatever.

Just then, the door to the hive explodes open (just like that one gif with the big yellow flapbeast) and Gor-Gor comes truckin’ on in, looking absolutely _steamed_. He’s in a fantastic state of disarray, usually-impeccable hair soaking wet and yanked into a sloppy bun atop his head, traces of some kind of white mud clinging to the bridge of his nose and the sides of his forehead, his face bare and untouched by even the lightest speck of makeup.

You snap a quick pic on your palmhusk, because _duh_. He doesn’t even notice, his gaze zeroing in on your alien friend instantly. He storms toward the loungeplank, ablutionrobe flapping behind him (under which he _is_ wearing some clothes, thank _gog_), and levels an icy glare at the closest trolls, i.e. you and the jades. “Would anyone care to tell me what, precisely, the _fuck_ happened? *___________” he seethes.

Aw, man, he’s pissed. Out of all your peers, you like Gor-Gor the best—the two of you have a lot in common, and he was the one to show you the ropes (and the dirty tactics) when you first started your internship—but you really don’t feel like you’re qualified to deal with him when he’s like this.

You give it your best shot, anyhow. You give him the lowdown—how the alien had gotten hivestuck after a bad accident, but you got them out, and like, there was this really cool thing someone almost got _got_ by a _culling drone_, but then you guys used your awesome teal skills to arbitrate the culling claim, which you _totally_ helped with, and—

“And why, pray tell, did you not decide to consult me sooner? *___________” Gor-Gor cuts you off, tones frigid and deceptively calm. He gives a short, bitter chuckle that immediately makes you feel like you’re in trouble. “I admit, I have been somewhat…off-the-grid these past few hours, but nonetheless, you might have sent someone to inform me of the alien’s condition. You _do_ know where I live, after all. With my connections, I could have _easily_ gotten our mutual friend here to a top-notch docterrorizer, yet here you are, “ his nose wrinkles in disgust, contempt dripping from his words, “patching them up on a loungeplank with a medicull kit for wrigglers, as though they’re some _barkbeast_ you ran over with a scuttlebuggy. *___________"

Okay, wow. To quote a wise troll: that shit hurted.

Before you can do something stupid like start crying, there comes an unexpected savior. “that wwwwouldn’t have wwwworked, Gorjek.” drawls Tizzy from the doorway to the nutrition block. Now that she’s back at her own hive, she’s acquired one of those white mugs she seems to have in infinite supply, and takes a long sip before continuing, “you wwwwould’ve just gotten themmmm culled.”

“As always, you underestimate me, _Entykk_. *___________”

“no, you just don’t have all the facts.” she states bluntly.

“Which are? *___________”

“even _if_ you found a clinic wwwwilling to treat hemmmmonymmmmous patients, they’d still check their records, to be certain,” another sip, “and thanks to that drone encounter, our _friend_ here has just lost their hemmmmoanonymmmmity.”

That actually seems to catch Gor-Gor off-guard. “Well if that isn’t fucking inconvenient. *___________” he mutters. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a legal precedent on sparing the culling of an extraterrestrial, by any chance? *___________” he asks of Tizzy. The words are mocking, but something in his tone betrays that he’s only being half-sarcastic.

The other teal gives a tired half-grin. “let’s wwwwork on it.” she says, with surprising warmth.

The two of them spend a couple of minutes talking legislaceration before heading off somewhere, presumably to consult the legal textbooks in Tizzy’s study. Gor-Gor kind of beckons you to come along, which, for _him_, is actually pretty considerate. Maybe it’s his apology for being such a douche when he first showed up. “in a minut33!” you call. There are still a few more memes that require your expert feedback.

Now that they aren’t being harangued by an irate tealblood, the two jades resume their patching up of the alien’s injuries, now with Spiky hovering awkwardly nearby and peering over their shoulders to assess their progress. The loud clattering noises emanating from the meal block, which had briefly paused during Gor-Gor’s rant, resume. A kind of equilibrium is restored to the hive.

You’re putting the finishing touches on your final meme review (memiew? you’ll workshop that later) and are preparing to set off in search of your fellow teals when the hive is unexpectedly invaded for the second time that night. The door swings open, and in strides not one, but _two_ more jadebloods. Did the alien somehow get a five-for-one combo when they befriended the first one, or something?

All three of the jades already in the room stiffen, and the little purple guy still in time-out turns around and lets out a gleeful “honk!”

What happens next is kind of a blur, but it is absolutely _riveting_. Within seconds, the entire lounge block just _completely_ devolves into a whirling mass of emotion. Voices are raised, tears are spilled, accusations are made, concerns are expressed, revelations are had, and blame is tossed to and fro like a hot stinkroot. Allegiances break and bend and twist too quickly for you to follow, forming and reforming until it’s completely unclear who’s fighting who and why. And here you’d thought the _teals_ had drama!

You’ve never been so profoundly entertained.

“[]hi![]”

A voice snaps you out of your reverie. With much difficulty, you pull your eyes away from the jadeblood drama and towards whoever’s addressing you. It’s one of the jades who walked in just now. She’s a lot younger than the others, and everything about her, from her polite stance to her sweater-and-button-up combo, practically _screams_ “hiveschoolfed”. Ugh.

“[]i'm Wanshi![]” she continues, raising her voice a little to be heard above the howling in the immediate vicinity. “[]are you here to visit the alien, too?[]” She gestures to the figure lying supine on the loungeplank.

“y33ah!” you half-shout back, sliding off your perch atop one of the arms of the loungeplank so you can address her at eye level. She’s taller than you, infuriatingly, because who isn’t? “th33yr33 a trust33d accomplic33 of min33” you boast, trying to inconspicuously stand on your toes.

“[]ooh, mine too![]” exclaims Wanshi, clapping her hands together in delight. “[]maybe We can be friends as Well! oh, i'm so sorry, What’s your name?[]”

This is the _perfect_ opportunity to test out your new business cards! With what you hope looks like dramatic flair, you whip out one of your cards and extend it to her. “Tirona Kasund, prof33ssional m33m33agandist.”

She takes the card and reads it, dark brows scrunching in puzzlement. “[]memea-gandist?[]”

“its a combination of m33m33 and propaganda. g33nius, isnt it?” you exclaim, always happy to enlighten a fellow youth. “by using on33’s knowl33dg33 of popular int33rn33t cultur33 and com33dy, you can inspir33 millions and millions of trolls to think 33xactly the way you want th33m to! it's totally foolproof!”

“[]sounds interesting![]”

“i inv33nted it _mys33lf_, actually” you add, preening just a little.

“[]oh WoW, you did? that's so cool, Tirona![]” gushes Wanshi. “[]mind if I ask you one thing?[]”

“sur33, anything.”

Wanshi opens her perfect little mouth and says the most soul-shattering thing you’ve ever heard.

“[]What’s a meme?[]”

What.

_What_.

She has to be joking, right?

“_pl33as33_ say sik33 right now.”

“[]um, what do you mean by that?[]”

She’s not joking, holy _shit_.

You have literally no idea what emotions you’re feeling right now. Grief? Pain? Outrage?

You grab a pillow off the loungeplank and screech into it for several seconds before carefully putting it down and turning back to face Wanshi.

“do you 33v33n us33 th33 int33rn33t?!”

“[]of course I do![]” the meme heathen chirps. “[]mostly, I go on forums to talk about stuff I’m interested in, like soldier purrbeasts.[]”

“you lik33 _soldi33r purrb33asts_?”

“[]yeah, who doesn’t? they’re the best![]”

You’re about to end this troll’s whole career.

“seriously, soldi33r purrb33asts? that's so _cring33_.”

Despite how clearly limited and unrefined Wanshi’s knowledge of internet culture is, she’s at _least_ cultured enough to know what _that_ means.

Her brows furrow, and her face flushes a little, two bright spots of jade standing out on her round cheeks. “[]they’re not _cringe_![]” she protests, arms crossed. “[]in fact, they’re actually really underrated! the Writing—[]”

“th33y’r33 und33rrat33d for a _r33ason_” you cut her off with sneer. “and th33 r33ason is that th33y’r33 sup33r-_lam33_.”

“[]well—uh—i bet your _memes_ are lame![]”

Oh, that _does_ it.

“oh y33ah? f33ast your gand33rbulbs on _this_!” With lightning speed, you pull up a memeaganda piece on your palmhusk and thrust it at her. It’s one of your latest works. On the left side is a photo of a sobbing rustblood, barely restrained by her moirail, pointing an accusing finger at something just outside the frame. On the right side is an unrepentant purrbeast sat in front of a nutrition plateau. Through your boss-level meme skills, you’d edited the picture so that the words “REBEL SCUM” are positioned above the left-side photo, and the words “TRIZZA’S FORCES” are on the right.

It’s a masterpiece.

Wanshi squints thoughtfully at the photo for a full minute. “[]i don’t get it.[]” she eventually says.

“whats not to g33t? this is _hilarious!!_”

The heathen actually has the audacity to _shrug_. “[]i guess i just don’t get Why it’s funny, that’s all.[]”

You’re about to blow a gasket.

“well, _this_ got 57 lik33s on Chittr!” you retort, jabbing the screen for emphasis. “_57!_ i b33t you a _million_ ca33gars no _soldi33r purrb33asts _posts hav33 33v33r gott33n 33v33n _half_ as many lik33s!”

“[]th-that’s not true! the main soldier purrbeasts forum currently has 62 members![]”

“and I b33t th33yr33 all lam33 and cring33y, just like _you_!”

“[]you take that back this _instant_!” Wanshi’s entire face is a deep jade now.

“_mak33 m33, n33rd!”_

“(ah, to be young and in hate.)” comments a completely unfamiliar voice from close by.

You whirl around to see a total stranger, a stout oliveblood clad in a long trench and a matching fedora, watching you and Wanshi with clear amusement in her eyes. She’s standing only a few feet away, right next to where the alien is still passed out on the loungeplank. How they’ve managed to sleep through all _this_ (the jades are _still at it_), you don’t know.

At some point, the alien must have rolled over a little in their sleep, because they’re now lying on their side and not their back. The oliveblood—how long has she even _been_ here?—is absent-mindedly readjusting the blankets around the alien’s body, tucking the corners snugly around any exposed limbs.

“(boldir lamati.)” she states, apropos of nothing. “(there’s no need to worry. i'm a friend of theirs.)”

“uh, sur33” you mumble uncertainly, not really sure how to respond.

“[]a pleasure to meet you![]” says Wanshi, because of course she does.

The new troll, Boldir—who you’ve just labeled “Shady” in your thinkpan— smiles warmly at the both of you. Something about her is kind of unsettling, but not…in a bad way? It’s hard to describe. “(as you were, ladies.)” she says, waving a hand in a shoo-shoo motion. “(i think i'll go and introduce myself to the host.)”

With that, Shady disappears into the meal block.

At this point, it seems like the jades are winding down, to your disappointment. You probably missed all the really juicy stuff. The other newcomer, the one who’s not Wanshi—a troll with long, dark hair with a single streak dyed jade green—is hugging a still-tearful Lyn and gently patting her on the back. Lanky seems like he’s trying to pretend he’s anywhere but here. Spiky just looks embarrassed for all of them. Also, the purple wriggler is finally out of time-out and is standing patiently near the new troll, holding the now-embellished drone helmet, presumably waiting for Lyn to go away so he can show off his handiwork.

Now that things are more quiet, you can actually hear things going on in other parts of the hive. From down the hall comes the sound of Tizzy and Gor-Gor bantering, occasionally punctuated by a sound of a heavy law tome being slammed onto the surface of a table. From the meal block, there’s Stels’ exuberant voice as she presumably chats with Shady.

More importantly, there is a _very_ tasty smell wafting out of the door between the lounge block and the meal block. It smells like stacked doughsheets fresh out of the oven.

You lock eyes with Wanshi. “dibs on th33 bigg33st pi33c33!”

Wanshi rolls her eyes. “[]you’re so immature[]” she scoffs, but nonetheless adds “[]dibs on the second-biggest piece.[]”

From behind you, a familiar voice, hoarse with pain and exhaustion, calls dibs on the third-biggest piece.

A pause.

I mean, only if no one _else_ wants it, the voice adds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> broke: Tirona only sees memes as useful tools for manipulating the masses  
woke: Tirona really likes memes because she’s an internet kid and memeaganda is just her combining her passions  
bespoke: Tirona sees memes as a rich and multifaceted branch of academic study. she considers herself a meme scholar and cites memes with the gusto of a college professor citing a scientific journal
> 
> (also ps its lasagna)


	11. Of Maudlin Missions and Mirthful Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yeah, that's right, i did a quadruple-m title again. i'm mad with power and no one can stop me

Your name is POLYPA GOEZEE, and you kill for two reasons and two reasons only: for good pay, and for self-defense. Tonight, however, you are preparing to kill for neither of those reasons.

What you plan to kill for is something personal.

You’re currently holed up on the second floor of a midtown communal hivestem, awaiting your target. The building is slated for demolition in a wipe’s time, so basically all the hives are abandoned, with only sounds of life being the occasional footsteps echoing distantly from other floors.

The rendezvous point had been chosen by your current temporary partner, who’d said the location was important to the lead they’d been following, and then failed to elaborate, promising that they’d explain in person. Said temporary partner has been late for eleven minutes now, leaving you plenty of time to stew in your thoughts.

At present, you’re perched on a windowsill in one of the empty apartments, idly sharpening your knife as you watch the street below. The longer you think about what it is you’re about to do, the more difficult it becomes to ignore the dread twisting your acid tubes into knots.

It is, of course, not at all unusual for trolls in your line of work to use their particular…_skillset_ to settle their personal beefs. In fact, a _lot_ of assassins you’ve met and/or heard of are preferential when it comes to picking jobs, with some preferring highbloods, others preferring lowbloods, et cetera, depending on their experiences with the hemospectrum. Not to mention, there’s the freaks who are obsessed with only taking out targets from one specific caste. A few sweeps ago, you’d known of a cerulean assassin who only took out hits on _other ceruleans_. You’re pretty sure they’re dead now—if not from a botched hit, then probably from not having the money to pay the bills, because relying on trolls to consistently request the assassinations of members of a specific caste is an extremely poor business strategy.

You, however, prefer to keep your personal and professional lives wholly separate. Your personal life is sparse as-is; it really doesn’t need the added mess that your line of work would undoubtedly introduce to it. For all your efforts to keep your name and sign disguised while out on the job, you’ve made your fair share of straightforward enemies, both inside and outside assassin/mercenary circles. To let your personal life seep into your work would be to endanger the few people you let come close to you.

Fitting, isn’t it, that your first truly personal kill will be to protect one of those very same people?

You look down at your knife and see one of your eyes reflected up at you, determined and horribly afraid.

If anything goes wrong here, this could ruin you. And if you should fail…

No. You can’t fail. You _won’t_ fail.

You turn back to the window, scanning the street for any sign of the troll you plan to kill.

The other troll is someone you’ve only heard about on the mercenary message boards before. One of the more convenient functions of the message boards is that they prevent a situation where too many trolls are pursuing a target all at once; once a new job posting is put up, any user whose certified killcount and skill levels match the target’s difficulty level can instantly claim the target simply by clicking a few boxes. From that point on, no other trolls have access to the full job listing, until either the target OR the would-be killer is confirmed as dispatched.

When you’d seen _that_ post, earlier in the night, your bloodpusher had almost stopped. There, at the top of the post, was a fuzzy dronecam picture of you, in your goldblood disguise, holding the hand of your alien then-accomplice. For a millisecond you’d assumed the target was you—right up until you’d read the rest of the post. You’re pretty sure your pusher stopped for real when you saw who the _real _target was. The imperial logo at the bottom of the post only made things worse.

You’d tried to claim the job, of course. But your shock had paralyzed you for a few seconds too long—the words “job claimed by user chromaCapturer” had appeared atop the profile, and you’d very nearly smashed your palmhusk right then and there.

Even an assassin like you, who mostly operates as a lone howlbeast, hears rumors from time to time. And the rumors surrounding chromaCapturer are…peculiar, to say the least. Every so often they’ll pop up on the message board and take a job, same as everyone else, but if the rumors are anything to go by, they’re one of those _collector_ types. What it _is_ they collect, you honestly don’t want to know. You’re not one to take trophies, yourself.

Still, a collector taking an interest in your alien friend can mean nothing good as far as their safety is concerned. And so, with just a flicker of hesitation, you did something you hadn’t done in a good many perigees: you messaged the other troll with a request to team up on the job.

For some reason, they’d _agreed_, and now, here you are, in an empty apartment hive, preparing to meet with this strange troll.

If things go _well,_ you’ll be able to convince (read: threaten) them to drop the claim on your moir— _friend_ and transfer it to you. Regardless of whether or not this troll actually knows where your friend is, you’re sure as hell not taking any chances with the life of someone you care about.

And if the other troll refuses to agree to your terms, well, that’s what the knife’s for.

As the rendezvous time approaches, you hear a door slam from somewhere else in the building. You soundlessly slip out into the hallway and start heading towards the stairwell, sheathing your knife at your belt as you do so. You can feel tension pulling at the muscles of your shoulders and spine as the sound of heavy footsteps grows steadily louder and louder.

The troll that emerges from the stairwell is…not at all what you expected. You’d unconsciously assumed that a collector-type killer would be older, someone who’d been career-killing for sweeps and took up collecting to fill some kind of twisted void. But _this _troll is positively petite. She can’t be any less than three sweeps younger than you, her features soft and cherubic, her horns barely reaching the level of your waist. She’s dressed in an artist’s smock so thickly stained with paint splatters that her sign—indigo, looks like— is just barely visible.

She peers up at you through a pair of large round spectacles. “are youu the assassin?” she asks, her voice syrupy-sweet.

You’re so caught off guard that you answer “yes? *|” without even thinking about it.

The indigoblood smiles, then, baring a mouth full of sharp little fangs. In the dim corridor, they shine oddly bright.

“good!” she chirps, and before you can even blink, she’s hefting a massive axe in both hands and taking a swing at you.

Your reflexes are fast enough that you avoid losing a strut stick, but the blade still slices you just above the knee. It doesn’t feel deep enough to be life-threatening, but it still hurts like hell. You hiss in pain as you instinctively stumble back, trying to put some distance between you and the indigoblood still advancing on you.

“hold _still!"_ she whines, raising the axe again. “it won’t huurt so muuch if youu stop moving!”

This time, you see the next swing coming and easily dodge, leaping back to avoid its arc. She keeps on coming at you, swinging again and again and again with a strength you wouldn’t have anticipated from someone of her size and stature, pushing you further down the hall.

Even _if_ you managed to draw your knife, between her tireless swings and the narrow space, you wouldn’t be able to get close enough to use it, not without potentially losing a limb or two. Instead, you force yourself to breathe and to ground yourself securely in the moment.

You concentrate on becoming movement itself, allowing your instincts to take over as you smoothly dodge each shining arc of the axe’s blade, careful not to waste a single reaction. Even so, you begin to feel the strain of exertion in your bellowsacs, and the cut she gave you is stinging more and more painfully with each movement, leaving olive droplets spattered on the hall carpet whenever you move.

Conversely, your attacker hasn’t even broken a sweat.

You’re rapidly running out of hallway. Thinking fast, you dart a few steps back to build up momentum before leaping up to somersault neatly over the indigo’s head. You intend to land in a battle-ready crouch directly behind her, but as you land, your cut leg buckles beneath your weight and sends you tumbling on your ass instead. This gives the indigo girl time to whirl around and draw back her axe, clearly intent on taking your head off your shoulders. _Shit!_

You lash out with your uninjured leg and try to throw the other killer off-balance. Your foot colliding with her calf isn’t enough to bring her down (stupid indigoblood sturdiness), but it does throw off her balance enough that you can duck her next swing. The axe whooshes overhead, and you hear a light _snick_ that tells you that some locks of your hair have just become acquainted with the threadbare carpet. Now between the troll and her axe, you surge forward and throw your full weight at her, bearing her down to the floor.

The younger troll lets out a pained yelp when the back of her head smacks against the floor. For a split second, you feel awful, until you rapidly remember she’s not the priority here. You roll off her to crouch at her side and, before she has the chance to sit up, hold your knife against her mealtunnel.

“put down the axe. *|” you growl, with a viciousness that surprises even you. She glares up at you petulantly, but lets her arm drop to her side and releases the axe.

Okay. Down to business.

You don’t think you’ve ever actually had to threaten someone before—your modus operandi is more “stab first, ask questions never.” Against your will, your thinkpan turns automatically to one of your favorite scenes in one of those trashy YT novels you’d used to read, where the rugged bronzeblood protagonist threatens her rival and gets them to admit all their crimes with just a hard look and an intimidating voice. Well, if that’s all it takes, you might as well give it a shot.

You fix the indigo with the sternest glare you can muster. “listen to me very closely pipsqueak * i'm only going to say this once *|” you start, trying to make your voice sound gruff and not just scratchy, “if you want to live * drop your culling claim on the alien mutant and transfer it to me *|”

“and let youu tuurn my preciouus muuse in to the drones?” she scoffs. “no!”

Now that you’re close enough to the indigoblood to tell that those are most definitely _not_ paint stains on her smock, you decide that you very much do not like the idea of her taking your friend as a “muse”.

“if you touch even one drop of my moirail’s blood * I will make you regret ever _hatching _*|” you hiss.

The indigoblood girl stares at you wide-eyed, and for a moment, you feel a twinge of shame. Did you really just threaten a wriggler? That’s a new low.

Then, to your surprise, the indigoblood _laughs_, an uneven, high-pitched cacophony of titters and chortles.

“t-too late for that!” she chokes out between giggles.

You freeze.

_No._

No, it can’t be. It’s only been an hour or so since that job was posted, how could she have gotten to them so fast? And if she had, wouldn’t there—wouldn’t there be—

Your gaze automatically drops to the pinned troll’s smock, roving over the bloodstains, searching, desperately hoping, _please please please don’t let it be true don’t let it be true—_

Your ganderbulbs come to a screeching halt on a splotch of bright, unmistakable red winking at you from the indigo’s left sleeve.

In an instant, your whole world seems to fall apart completely.

_No, no, no, no, NO!_

You can’t believe it. You _can’t_. You were going to save them, to keep them _safe_. How could you have lost them like this? How _could _you?

(You think you might be hyperventilating, the sound of your breaths harsh and wheezing to your hear ducts.)

You grieved when you lost your hive, a sore, aching grief that made a little hive of its own deep in your chest and never really moved away.

You grieved whenever you lost a temporary partner, a numb, icy grief that seeped down into your bones and stayed there for wipes.

_This_ grief completely decimates you, howling and tearing through your thinkpan like a whirlwind. You feel as though your bloodpusher is being clawed from your chest. 

_You’ve failed your moirail._

(Your breathing is growing more and more unsteady as your thinkpan races, and your surroundings seem to shift and twist and blur.)

When was the last time you saw them, your soft, strange little diamond?

Was it two wipes ago? Three?

What were they wearing? What were they saying? You can’t remember.

You remember sensations— a hand on each side of your face, almost burning to the touch, their fingertips leaving warm trails across your face as they slid back to stroke through your hair. You strain to remember how they looked, then and there, as they held onto you like you were the most precious thing in all the universe.

But all you can see is red, red like that spot on the other troll’s sleeve, that _damned, wretched_ spot—

You hear a soft wail of pain.

You manage to snap out of your catatonic state and look down to see that your hand, the one holding the knife, is trembling violently. Across the other troll’s mealtunnel is a jagged indigo line.

You stare numbly at it before shock and horror come flooding in, completely overwhelming your senses. What have you _done_?

Before you can do or say anything, a pair of huge, clawed hands seize your shoulders, and you’re being yanked up and away from the indigoblood girl as though you weigh no more than a flapbeast feather. Your back is slammed against the wall of the corridor with enough force that your fangs gnash together. You taste blood.

You raise your head and find yourself face-to-face with a massive subjuggulator.

_Oh, fuck._ Just when you’d thought your luck couldn’t get any worse.

Instinctively, you struggle against her grasp, clawing at whatever you can reach to try and loosen the purpleblood’s vise grip on your upper arms, your strut sticks kicking out uselessly from two feet above the ground. None of this works.

Your panic seems to amuse the subjuggulator. A huge, lazy smile spreads itself across the painted face before you.

“nighTy-nighT, liTTle heaThen.” she drawls in a low, rumbling voice that turns your spine to ice.

You grit your fangs together to keep yourself from screaming or begging or crying or any of the other things your desperately want to do right now. You squeeze your ganderbulbs shut and, in what are probably your last waking moments, you hope, for the first time, that there really is some kind of afterlife, if only so that you can see your moirail again.

“chahuut, wait!”

Your ganderbulbs pop open in surprise just in time to see the tiny indigoblood girl stepping around the subjuggulator. She’s wiping her mealtunnel with the back of her sleeve, and as she lowers her arm, you see that the cut there is far shallower than all the blood had suggested.

She squints up at you, tiny brows furrowed. “did youu juust say _moirail?”_ she demands.

Oh. Did you really say that?

Now that you think about it, the two of you had never really made it _official_, per se. Sure, they’d shown unmistakably pale affection to you on multiple occasions, but initially, it had all been for a ruse, hadn’t it? Even though you’ve been on a couple of mini-dates since that day in the theater, you haven’t been able to shake that doubt that maybe, just maybe, they were just playing pale with you because they were a good friend and they thought you wanted them to keep up the ruse. You had never been able to work up the nerve to ask whether that was the case.

Gog, you’re such a mess when it comes to this stuff. Books and movies always make it look so easy.

“i do believe liTTle blue jusT asked you a questTion.” rumbles the subjuggulator still dangling you above the ground. Oh, right.

“yes *|” you answer, hating the way your voice falters. “they’re— * they _were_ my moirail *|”

The indigo’s nose wrinkles. “_were?”_

Your bloodpusher leaps. “you didn’t— * you didn’t kill them? *|”

The indigo girl looks completely offended.

“of _couurse_ not!” she exclaims, throwing her little hands into the air for dramatic emphasis. “i don’t kill my _friends_!”

“but if they’re your friend * why did you put a culling claim on them? *|” you ask, stupidly, already knowing the answer the minute the words leave your mouth.

“to stop _other trolls from cuulling them first_, youu lowblood dimwit!” the younger troll yells, actually stamping her foot.

The highblood throws back her head and laughs, a rich, hearty, full-belly laugh that seems to fill the whole building and goes on for a good minute or so. She loosens her grip on your forearms, allowing you to slip back to the ground. You slump against the wall, limp with relief and shock from the emotional whiplash you just experienced.

“well, if ThaT ain’T the mosT mirThful Thing a sisTer ever did hear,” she chuckles, flicking a tear from the corner of one of her reddish-orange eyes. She ruffles the little indigoblood’s hair affectionately. “looks like you goT your sweeT liTTle pusher all worked up proTecTin’ a moTherfucker from Their own moirail.”

“quuit it, chahuut” whines the smaller troll, trying to push away her companion’s hand. As she does so, that bright red spot comes into view, and you suddenly remember what she’d said earlier when you’d threatened her against taking your moirail’s blood.

_“too late”, _she’d said.

You straighten up, doing your best to keep your weight off your injured leg. “hey * ”, you address the small indigoblood as calmly as you can manage, highly conscious of the fact that the gargantuan subjuggulator is still watching you AND that you no longer have a weapon. “what was that you said earlier about my moirail’s blood? *|” You hear yourself say the word “moirail” with greater certainty than last time; the more you say it, the more it feels right.

“well _duuh_, of _couurse_ I have some of their blood,” she scoffs, “they’re my muuse, after all.” She seems to sense your dissatisfaction with this answer, and continues: “it was only _one time_, and besides, I uused a medicalizer on them afterwards.”

It still sounds pretty bad, but then again, your moirail was always so dreadfully soft when it came to doing favors for friends.

_Yeah, like _faking a moirallegiance _for their sake,_ says a particularly nasty voice in the corner of your thinkpan. You hurriedly shove that voice down before it can say anything else.

“anyways, this was a waste of time.” says the indigoblood. She rummages around the many pockets of her smock for a moment or so before pulling out a palmhusk. She taps the screen a few times before turning the device and shoving it at your face. “see any other false alarms on here?”

On the screen is the post from the mercenary forum. Because it’s the indigoblood’s account, you can see the full details of the request—there’s really not that much there, just their blood hue and something about a missing drone on the outskirts of town—and there, below the post, there’s a list of pending requests by other users also looking to take the job.

At the top of the list is your name, of course, as well as a half-dozen others. Your ganderbulbs skim the list before stopping at two familiar tags. “those two * ” you point a claw at the screen, “duelistPrince and adeptBrutality * they’re friends of my moirail * they’re probably on here for the same reason I am *|” Or at least, you _hope_ they are.

“which leaves four more moTherfuckers unaccounTed for.” hums the purpleblood. She looks at you and smiles once more, this time with genuine mirth shining in her dark orange eyes. “say, liTTle survivor, how’d you like To come a-hunTin’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoever mods the merc forums is NOT doing their job if they haven’t banned amisia yet


	12. Of Prayers, Pity, and Proteins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *has 38 fully-fleshed out trolls to choose from* *picks very literal background character*

You are now the HOTDOG JUGGLER TROLL, although you are not juggling any such oblong meat products at present. In fact, you are not juggling anything at present, which, your fellow purplebloods would note, is very unusual for you. It’s kind of your trademark, after all.

Little do they know, you ARE, in fact, currently juggling something—the “something” being the mushy mess of pityfeelings you’re harboring for a certain rustblooded troll.

For what has to be the umpteenth time that hour, you try and force yourself to stop thinking about the (extremely nice) face of the troll you’d met at that party a few wipes ago and instead turn back to your prayers.

You inhale deeply, taking in the cloying, blood-and-sugar scent that permeates every inch of Church, and turn your focus back to the stained-glass Messiahs above. Clasping your palms together, you pray for all the things you pray for every week after the service— for the sweet nectar of their mirth / to sing your merry soul’s rebirth, for their blessed strength to pulse purple in your veins / whenever you sing and make merry in their names, for the sick fires of their voodoos to wash across the land / to laugh away the poison in the disbelievers’ pans, etc, etc.

Then, you pray for one more thing, something that you hadn’t intended to pray for but comes tumbling out of you anyways.

You pray for a miracle.

Bowing your head, you utter a soft “\\* motherfuckin’ amen */” and flick a pinchful of special stardust up into the air, feeling glittery particles settle on your head and shoulders. Already, you feel a lightening in your chest, like the Messiahs’ wondrous whimsy is smoothing out the knots in your tangled-up pumpbiscuit. 

“oh dam u usin that cherrypop sugardust homes?” comments the troll a few seats down from you in the pew, “lookz lik u cookin sum red uppin ur pan lol”

You look at your palm and realize that you’d used red stardust without even thinking about it. Wow, you’ve really got it bad, huh.

You shrug sheepishly at your neighbor, who just laughs, big and toothy. “u slam dat inna quad yet, lil juggabro?” 

You haven’t, and you tell the other troll as much. He looks sympathetic. “yea, it be lik dat” he says, offering you a shrug of his own. “forreal tho, keep ur pusher all up in the mirth, brosef. u got dis.” he gives you a thumbs-up.

The positive encouragement of a peer lifting your spirits even more. “\\* hells yeah i got this */” you say with newfound confidence. Your palmhusk vibrates in your pocket, then, reminding you that you’ve an engagement to keep with a very special troll.

As you hurry as respectfully as you can from Church, you think you hear someone say, in a thoughtful tone of voice, “guezz if theres any place an unnamed recurring background chara’s gonna land themself a solid motherfuckin’ quad, it’s gotta be in a non-canon fic lol”

You’re not sure what any of that really means, and you don’t really care to find out, either, because the Church doors are swinging shut behind you and sitting on the front steps less than ten feet away from you is—

Diemen turns his head at the sound of the door. When he sees you, he smiles and waves at you. “(| hey there |)”

One look at that round freckled face and you’re absolutely done for. Whatever confidence you’d had melts into a gooey puddle in your chest.

He looks the same as he did the night you met him— casual t-shirt and vest over jeans, a bit threadbare from overuse. In the several times you’ve seen him since, you don’t think you’ve seen him wear any other clothing; the same little mustard stain on the hem of his shirt is still there. 

Looking at that stain, you’re reminded of when you first saw it, at that cerulean girl’s party. You’d been idly juggling five or six mini sausage rolls from the buffet table—partially because you’d never juggled them before, partially because you had no idea what else to do with yourself in a social situation—when you’d noticed a rustblood boy staring at you as if hypnotized.

Well, not at _you_, at the little snacks traveling in perfect circles around your face. Still, the undisguised awe and want and hunger on his face had made you flush a little, even if it wasn’t for you. (You kind of wish it was.)

And when you’d offered him a sausage roll, the look of complete and utter joy that he’d given you over something as simple as a snack had you falling thinkpan over strutpod in pity.

You snap out of it when you hear him saying your name. “\\* oh sorry could you say that again */”

“(| oh, i was just asking how you were doing |)” he says. “(| you seemed kinda spaced out |)”

“\\* oh its no big deal its just */” Oh wow you really should have planned this better. You decide to go for what your red-addled thinkpan apparently deems the safest route.

“\\* got high on stardust */” you blurt out. When he tilts his head quizzically, you manage to shove your strutpod even further down your throat with an added “\\* super high, im just super high right now */”

Oh, messiahs, what you’d give for something to juggle with right now. Your palms feel weird and twitchy and too-sweaty and the rest of you probably isn’t much better. This is a disaster.

You not sure what reaction you’re expecting—ridicule? vague disgust? — but Diemen just nods sagely. “(| yeah, i feel you, hard drugs are no joke |)” Wait. Huh? While you’re still processing, he continues, “(| have you eaten yet? stardust is hard on an empty stomach |)”

You shake your head no, you haven’t eaten yet today. You’d actually been planning to grab a bite to eat after late evening service.

“(| you’re in luck, i got some great intel on a place that serves some **Choice Meat Spheres **with doughworms and grubsauce |)” he says excitedly. “(| come on, it’s not too far! |)”

He takes your wrist and starts making his way down the sidewalk, tugging you along behind him. It’s probably because he thinks you’re stoned out of your mind, but you’re too focused on the fact that _you are very nearly holding hands_ to care about that. The Messiahs must be smiling upon you today.

The two of you walk and talk for a while, mostly about foodstuffs, as is par for the course with Diemen. You tell him proudly about your new juggling record— eleven objects held airborne at once—and he compliments your skill, asking him if you can show him later.

After talking to him for a little while, you’re beginning to feel like you’ve gained some of your confidence back. The two of you are walking side-by-side, now, but his warm hand is still around your wrist, and it’s doing some pretty funny things to your bloodpusher. Downright mirthful things, in fact.

Still, there’s a persistent worry gnawing at your thinkpan, one that’s only been growing stronger the longer you two talk about food.

_What if Diemen only likes you for your oblong meat product juggling act?_

If you were anything else—a candy juggler, maybe—would he even care you existed?

You glance at him. He’s rambling something about condiments, something about the perfect ratio of grubsauce to weepfruit shavings. Noticing your silence, he cuts himself off and looks over to you, “(| oh sorry, i ended up rambling about **Delectable Meats** again |) (| is that ok? i know it’s kinda weird |)”

He looks at you with such uncertainty that you think your bloodpusher is about to explode with pity, and without even thinking about it, you open your mouth to tell him so.

Before you can, however, something happens.

You’d so caught up in your mess of red feelings that you didn’t even hear the approaching limousine until it’s screeching to a halt beside the two of you. The colored decals indicate it belongs to a cerulean. Without even thinking, you move so that you’re half-stood in front of Diemen, just in case.

Diemen, however, lights up. “(| oh, hey, it’s Mallek |)” He waves his free hand at the limousine’s tinted windows.

A moonroof at the top of the limo pops open, and a ceruleanblood troll with more piercings than you thought possible on a face emerges. “yo Diemen;” he calls down, “good thing i spotted you; we got an emergency; gonna need all hands on deck;”

“(| huh? |)”

The cerulean hesitates, and you don’t miss how his eyes flick quickly over you before coming back to Diemen. “explanations gonna have to wait til we get there; but trust me; its important; sorry to break up your date btw;”

“(| well, if it’s important, ok |)” Diemen calls back, to your dismay. He sighs dramatically, “(| and here i was really looking forward to some **Hot Meat Products** |)”

Well, so much for miracles, you guess.

You say a good-bye to Diemen. It was nice while it lasted.

He stares at you in abject confusion. “(| what are you talking about? |)” he asks. “(| we’re gonna finish our date later tonight, right? |)” 

You’re pretty sure you just completely shut down at that point.

Diemen gives you a look that’s fond and— dare you say, _pitying_— and then lets go of your wrist to rifle through the inside pockets of his puffy vest. He withdraws a small cylinder carefully wrapped in paper. With care and precision, he unwraps the cylinder, revealing a tasty-looking oblong meat product in a bun.

He offers the oblong meat product to you.

“(| here, take it |)” he insists, pressing the snack into your hands. “(| i was gonna save it for later, but it seems like you need **My Sweet Meat** more than I do right now |)” He pats your shoulder. “(| if you don’t end up eating it, save it for me, ok? |)”

You’re too stunned to say a word; you just clutch the oblong meat product numbly to your chest as you watch him walk away and climb into the limo. You remain standing there long after the vehicle has disappeared around the corner.

Your thinkpan is fumbling and struggling to form any thoughts at all, but through the mire shines one indisputable, absolute fact:

_Miracles are real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for all your comments, btw!
> 
> I don't really have a set schedule for how I update this fic, but seeing as things are getting busier for me, y'all can expect it to update once a weekend at bare minimum, maybe more if it's a good weekend.


	13. Of Worth, Monetary And Otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god BLESS you, tagora, for having a typing quirk that lets me write like a normal person. i'd almost forgotten what that felt like

Your name is TAGORA GORJEK and you are both very pleased and profoundly dismayed to find that your longest-held suspicion, after all this time, was, indeed, a legitimate one.

You really _are_ the only tealblood on the block who knows a damn thing about personal grooming.

In Stelsa’s defense, her beautification skills aren’t half-bad. Matter of fact, you’d go so far as to say that her claw manicure techniques come close to rivaling your own. The problem with _her_ grooming routines, as you’re discovering right now, is that she clearly isn’t quite as willing to _invest_ in the first-rate stuff. As you critically assess the array of beauty products neatly arranged on the other tealblood’s vanity table, you’re disappointed to find not one single product worth 3,000 caegars or more. Ah, those auditerrorizers and their sensible spending habits.

You pick up and examine a case of eyeshadow. It’s a recognizable brand, but not one you would ever have willingly used, if you’d had a choice. Well, it will have to do. This is by no means an ideal situation, but you absolutely cannot head back out there looking like _this, _with tangled hair still damp from the ablution trap and a bare face. You have a reputation to uphold, and it’s reputation that brings in the victi— er, the _clients_.

“i think stelsa keeps the clawwww stuff in the mmmmiddle drawer” Entykk remarks half-heartedly. You can see her hovering a few feet behind you in the vanity mirror, taking a long sip from her mug. She’s fairly nonchalant about you going through her matesprit’s vanity table and personal grooming supplies, probably because you’d made a promise to pay Stelsa back later. 

You check the middle drawer. No manicure tools, which doesn’t surprise you, seeing as Tyzias Entykk has probably never been within five meters of a dressing table. You make a rude hand gesture at her anyways— which you see her promptly return in the mirror above the vanity—before picking up a hairbrush.

While you pluck a few of Stelsa’s hairs from between the bristles of the brush, Entykk heads over to the door of the respiteblock, apparently satisfied that you aren’t going to do something heinous to her matesprit’s beauty products. You think she’s about to leave the room—good _riddance_—but she pauses in the doorframe and turns to meet your gaze in the mirror.

“they’re awwwwake nowwww, you knowwww.”

“How wonderfully _astute_ you are, Entykk. You think I can’t hear that rumpus from here?” Indeed, you can hear a medley of overlapping voices that spills through the open doorway of the ablutionblock from further down the hall, excitement and relief and concern and delight all mingled together in a great big bubbling mess. “Unlike _certain_ legislacerators I’m unfortunate enough to know, I’d rather _my_ clients didn’t see me looking like a drowned purrbeast. *___________” you snark, smoothing your hair down in parts where it’s getting frizzy.

One of Tyzias’ eyebrows pop up. “your _client?”_ She takes another pull from the mug.

Come to think of it, as far as your acquaintanceship with the alien goes, the term “client” is not quite accurate anymore, not since you’d made up that contract. You amend your previous statement.

“My _business partner._ *___________” you enunciate, while still trying to corral your mess of thick black hair into something approaching the vertical axis. This is what you get for tying it back while it was still wet.

“and wwwwhat kind of business do you twwwwo do?” probes Tyzias, her smirk barely hidden behind the rim of her mug.

“Don’t look so skeptical. You’d be surprised to know just how much my client network has been expanded these last few perigees.” you sneer, ripping the hairbrush viciously through some stubborn knots in your hair. “It would seem that keeping the company of a mutantblood cullbait refugee does wonders for one’s client outreach. *___________” It’s done wonders for your pitch quadrant also, but hey, that’s none of her business.

“really” drawls your classmate, adjusting her glasses where they’ve slipped down a little. “so, they’re just a tool to you?” Her voice gains a sharp edge to it. How droll.

“Truly pumpbreaking to hear you accuse me of such a thing, dear classmate.” you tut, working the bristles of the brush through the last tangle. “Rest assured, my business partnership with our mutual friend is perfectly balanced. Their presence expands my professional networking opportunities, and in return, I do my part to improve their quality of life. *___________”

Stelsa doesn’t appear to have any hairbands, and you can’t find the one you had when you hurried over, so you just let your hair fall loose down your back before moving on to the facial products.

“quality of life? they wwwwere living in an actual fucking deathtrap.” At this admission, Entykk somehow looks even more haggard than before, slumped against the doorframe and rubbing the dark teal circles beneath her eyes. “gog, it’s just…wwwwe should have done sommmmething sooner.” she groans.

The snappy comeback you’d had planned dies on the tip of your tongue. As loathe as you are to admit it, Tyzias is right. Yes, you’d done the odd favor for your small alien companion here and there—letting them use your ablution trap a few times a perigee, granting them a small stipend with which to buy food and water, providing a few appliances for their hive—but it was a mistake to allow them to continue living in such squalid conditions for so long, caste be damned.

“Yes, we should have” is what you reply with instead, the statement free from mockery. “But it’s counterproductive to linger on missed opportunities. You should know better than _that_, Entykk.” You meet her startled gaze in the mirror. “The only thing that matters _now_ is how we can keep them from the drones. As they say, there’s no sweep—”

“—like the one you’re fucking in.” she completes the idiom. She half-grins as she says it. “you really do care about themmmm, huh, sore-gore?”

“Of course I do, it’s a profitable partnership. *___________” you scoff, leaning closer to the vanity mirror as you begin painstakingly reapplying your eyeliner.

“you knowwww, you can just _say_ that you’re friends with themmmm.”

Your hand stalls, very briefly, just enough that your left eyeliner wing comes out crooked. With a muttered curse, you rub it away with your thumb and start again. “And compromise my professional integrity? I don’t think so. *___________”

“wwwwhatever suspends your flotation device, I guess.” Tyzias takes another swig from her mug. “wwwwell, _i'mmmm_ going to go see themmmm nowwww. wwwwhen you’re done primmmmping, the lounge block is twwwwo doors dowwwwn.”

“I know where it _is_, Entykk, I was there less than ten minutes a—” you start, but she’s already gone, the respiteblock door shutting automatically behind her. You return to your task of recreating your professional persona as best you can using someone else’s beauty products.

As you work, carefully and delicately applying each layer of makeup, the little counters in your thinkpan automatically click on.

Chapped lips, -300 caegars. An easy enough fix, just a quick swipe of balm.

Ruffled eyebrows, -780 caegars. You don’t have the tools to reshape them, infuriatingly—damn Stelsa and her naturally perfect eyebrows—but you can at least smooth them back with your fingers.

Eyebags, -900 caegars. Two dots of concealer on either side more or less hide them from sight; it’s a good thing you and Stelsa have such similar complexions.

Stress wrinkles, -1100 caegars. Some clever work with primer and powder, perhaps—

A sudden knock at the door of the respiteblock startles you, breaking your concentration; the powder puff slips from your fingers and lands on the dressing table, sending up a small puff of grey particles. Drat.

“_Occupied!_ *___________” you snap, automatically, in the direction of the door.

For a few moments, there’s no response, leading you to believe that whatever troll had been at the door has taken off. Just as you’re turning back to the vanity mirror, there’s a familiar voice, a little weak but still audible.

Um, Tagora? Are you in there?

“Yes, yes, I’m here. *___________” you call back, daubing your temples with primer.

Oh, so _that’s_ where you were, says your business partner, their voice a little muffled. Tirona said you were in the hive too, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Um, can I come in?

“Absolutely_ NOT_” you bark, a lot more harshly than intended. You regret this immediately; you can practically _hear_ your soft-hearted business partner wilting a little outside the door.

“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of disarray at the moment.” You quickly add, putting the powder puff down again and moving closer to the door as you speak. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not be seen until I’ve managed to regain some semblance of professionalism. *___________”

Oh yeah, sure thing dude. When do you think you’ll be done? Stelsa made this _really_ good pasta thing and I think the kids are probably gonna finish it soon.

“I’d estimate that this will take me another ten minutes, at least.” You haven’t even _started_ on your claws and horns yet. “Why don’t you go on and join the others? I’ll join you once I’m finished here. *___________”

There’s another pause. When your alien colleague starts speaking again, their voice is a bit quieter, and you have to get closer to the door to hear them properly. They sound…a tad bit crestfallen?

Yeah, sure, I’ll do that. It just feels…kind of weird, you know? I mean, like, having a meal with a whole bunch of your friends, but your best friend isn’t there too, it’s just…

You freeze.

Best_ friend?_

Your thinkpan is abruptly swept up in a flood of memories, all at once—all those times the little alien come over just to chat and “hang out” with no agenda in particular, the texts they sent you nearly every day with memes or updates or just to ask how you were doing, the way they’d helped to smooth out your rocky relationship with Galekh without you even asking them to, the time they brought you a homemade art piece made out of junk for you to use as a desk decoration (which you did)— all things that didn’t fall within the lines of the contract the two of you had made.

And then other memories, memories of things you had done for them in turn—the day you’d bought them that coffee machine without even thinking to add the cost to their debts, the time you’d picked up a specific shampoo on a shopping trip because you knew it would be less harsh on their fragile skin, and then earlier today, when you’d seen Entykk’s text about them getting hurt, and rushed out of your ablution trap and your hive without even fixing your appearance.

All equally non-contractual things, and all things you’d done without even thinking about it.

_“you knowwww, you can just _say_ that you’re friends with themmmm.” _Tyzias’ words echo mockingly in your mind.

You unfreeze at the sound of footsteps moving away from the door. A sharp “wait!” leaps from your mouth automatically, and you feel a terrifyingly vast amount of relief when you hear the footsteps pause.

“Just…” You take a deep breath to try and regain your composure. “Just wait. I’ll be out in a few moments. *___________”

You walk back to the dressing table and look at the troll in the mirror. They’re wearing an ablutionrobe over a set of wrinkled house clothes. Their thick, dark hair is hanging floppily down their back, their horns are clean but lack any trace of polish, and their face—

Their face is ridiculous, half-covered in makeup, half-not, with aching, unprofessional sentimentality written all over it.

You sigh and use a soft teal washcloth to scrub away everything but the eyeliner, because fuck it, you worked hard on that.

Then you cross the respiteblock and open the door.

There stands your best friend, all bruises and bandages and stupidly blinding optimism. The alien looks up at you, at your face, and they smile.

You don’t need the little counters in your thinkpan to tell you how much that smile is worth. You already know that it’s priceless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i've kind of settled on MSPAR's "quirk" just being similar to the narration; it feels right, somehow? what do yall think


	14. Of Delays and Derailments, Necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank! you! for! the! support!

Your name is KONYYL OKIMAW, and you do NOT like being made to wait.

And yet, with each and every dichromatic moonrise that graces the Alternian horizon, you’re beginning to feel more and more like you should just straight-up change your official hobby from “BRAWLING” to “WAITING AROUND FOR ASSHOLES TO SHOW UP SO THAT THE BRAWLING CAN ACTUALLY START”.

After all, it SURE DOES SEEM LIKE you end up doing the latter a hell of a lot more than the former!

Is there seriously _NO ONE _in this city who knows how to make it to meetings on time?

Okay, SURE, you’ll admit: a little bit of ANTICIPATION can make fights a LOT more worthwhile. You know from experience that there’s nothing quite like FIRST BLOOD after a long stakeout. In fact, not too long ago, you and ‘Daja had been tracking a particularly infuriating mustardblood target for half a perigee before you FINALLY caught them. The complete and utter shock on the arsonist’s face in the seconds before you decapitated them had been AWESOME.

Well, not as awesome as getting to perform the decapitation itself, but it’d certainly been a nice touch.

Despite all that, the fact remains: waiting around is boring as HELL, and if you weren’t waiting for your matesprit right now, you’d probably have just fucked off somewhere else MANY minutes ago.

As it is, you’re stuck here, pacing around a closed-off intersection in downtown Outglut while waiting for Azdaja to get back from his “psionics training” on the outskirts of the city.

Your use of scare quotes here is quite necessary, because you know for an ACTUAL FACT that he spends 30% of the training time honing his already-completely-overpowered eyebeams and the other 70% just practicing cool poses and rehearsing one-liners to use in Duel Strifers matches.

It’s actually really cute, but he gets all EMBARASSED when you tell him that, so most of the time you leave him to it and go off to do something else.

Which brings you to the present moment, i.e. skulking awkwardly near a construction site downtown and mentally cursing at the fact that your matesprit just HAD to go training somewhere with shitty reception.

You try your palmhusk for the sixth time that evening. A tinny voice politely informs you that the requested number is out of range. You politely inform the voice that it can go die in a ditch before hanging up.

You find yourself opening up the CullForCaegars messageboard again to check on the status of the most recent target. No change; the job is still claimed by chromaCapturer. Well, at least the status hasn’t changed from UNCULLED to CONFIRMED CULLED.

Nonetheless, you feel a cold prickle of dread run its claws down your spine. Seeing the little alien’s face HERE, alongside all these other cull targets…it’s WRONG. It’s just _WRONG_! They aren’t LIKE the other trolls on here. They’re not a threat or a danger to ANYONE. They’re just…they’re not…

They’re not supposed to be PREY.

It’s probably just a mistake. The CullForCaegars mods get stuff mixed up ALL THE TIME. Not to mention, the imperial bots who put in submissions from the culling database are always getting screwed with by hackers. Even if the alien IS in the database, the “Medium-High” cull priority level is probably a fluke.

Probably.

A very small portion of your thinkpan reasons to itself: _gee, I wonder what OTHER flukes have manifested as target profiles on the message boards? I wonder how many _WE’RE_ responsible for CULLING? After all, we’ve taken a COUPLE of imperial jobs when times have gotten TOUGH. _

Well, YEAH. But THOSE were DIFFERENT. They were…they were dangerous, and…and…

_And they were WHAT? Other TROLLS? PREY? _The very small part of your thinkpan is getting a lot louder. _Does that even MEAN ANYTHING? How MANY of those trolls do you think were JUST LIKE your frien—_

You smack the heel of your hand against the side of your head. “shut UP” you growl. Gog, this whole thing is really starting to fuck with you. If you have to stand here any longer, you’re gonna start actually REFLECTING on the potential repercussions of your past actions, and that’s not something you’re ready for right now.

You REALLY hope Daja hurries the hell up. The sooner Azdaja gets here, the sooner you’ll have to stop thinking about all this, because HE’LL be the one doing all the thinking instead. He’s always been so good at that.

Your usual reflexes are so immobilized by your mental strife that you don’t even sense the falling object until it connects with your left horn.

Pain shoots through the horn and directly into your skull, peppering your vision with blinding white sparks. You stagger around for several minutes, shaking your head and spewing curses left and right while your horn throbs in unspeakable pain. FUCK, that’s gonna leave a mark. What was THAT?

You hear a clatter, and you automatically look down to see the offending projectile: a palmhusk, its screen totally shattered.

WHAT?

Once the pain in your horn has dulled a bit, you reach down and carefully pick up the husk from the puddle of broken glass fragments. Then you look up.

The only thing nearby is the construction site. However, the site looks to be empty, devoid of any movement or noise that would suggest work being done. The site is centered around the tall metal skeleton of what is likely to become a new communal hivestem, looming six stories high.

You squint up at the skeleton frame where it’s silhouetted against the moons. Within a few seconds, you spot it—a figure, perched at the very top of the building. They don’t seem to be looking at you. Well, they’re GOING to be.

You decide that, TECHNICALLY, going into the construction site won’t mean you’re leaving the rendezvous point, and so you storm into the site, intent on mauling whatever asshole’s up there dropping palmhusks on other trolls’ heads.

At the base of the steel frame, you circle around to pick a spot facing away from the figure, so that they won’t spot you approaching, because you are a PROFESSIONAL when it comes to these things. You reach up to pull yourself onto the nearest beam and begin ascending. Luckily, the beams aren’t too far apart, and you are SWOLE AS FUCK, so the climb gets over with fairly quickly.

You reach the top of the unfinished building within minutes. The roof has a temporary platform over it, so you don’t have to worry about hopping across any beams to reach your MYSTERIOUS AGGRESSOR. You pull yourself as quietly as you possibly can over the edge of the wooden platform and quickly take in the scene.

About five meters away from you is the other troll, sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the building, staring out at the city. Because of the angle at which you chose your approach, their back is to you.

You decide to cut to the chase. You stride across the rooftop and give the other troll a hard tap on the head with one claw. “hey ASSHOLE”

The other troll startles violently (HEH, surprised them) and nearly slips off the roof, but you grab the back of their shirt and haul them back up. They look up at you, eyes wide.

Now that you can their sign is visible, you can see that they’re a teal. He looks like a nerd, kind of scrawny with round glasses and a floppy pageboy hat pulled over his head.

He also looks like he’s been crying a little.

Uh.

Oops?

It might be a good time to BACKTRACK a little bit.

“found your PALMHUSK” you say, belatedly, showing him the busted device. “you should be more CAREFUL with your STUFF” you add. “couldve dented my HORN”

His attention snaps to the proffered device. “Ah. I. Er- gomenasai.” he says, stiffly, carefully taking the palmhusk from you and tucking it away somewhere in the long black coat he’s got on. “I—I apo/ogize, I must seem /ike a disgraceful representation of my caste, /ittering in a public p/ace.” The mention of littering seems to spark something in him, and he begins rambling, “Rest assured, those of us who take the heavy mant/e of /egis/acerator do not do so /ight/y, and this aberration was a mere moment of weakness, a terrib/e casua/ty of my scattered thinkpan, a thing which I wou/d never condone if I had—”

“its no big DEAL” you cut him off, waving a hand. “im not DEAD, you dont need to CULL YOURSELF OVER IT”

This is APPARENTLY the wrong thing to say, because his shoulders slump. “Hai, that is true. Seppuku is too honorab/e a death for such hypocritica/ scum as I. I have fa//en too far for redemption, too damned by my dreadfu/ actions, too—”

He kind of just…keeps GOING like that. You begrudgingly seat yourself on the edge of the roof next to the guy. You don’t really GET what it is he’s talking about, or what all those Eastern Alternian terms mean, but it seems like this rando has a LOT to get off his chest, and you don’t have anything better to do. Besides, he sounds really freaked by whatever it is he did, and you’re a little worried he might hurt himself if you leave him alone.

“—my thinkpan scattered /ike so many sakura b/ossoms in a hurricane—”

Your thoughts wander as the tealblood yammers on. Briefly, you peek at your palmhusk to check the culling claim on your alien friend. No change. GREAT. Now, if ‘Daja could just HURRY THE HELL UP, that’d be PERFECT.

“—a baka of the highest degree, unworthy of my caste, my p/anet, my anime—”

“so what did you DO” you cut him off.

He sighs and looks out dramatically over the horizon before replying. “It is not a simp/e matter of what I did. It is what I _didn’t_ do.”

A pause. You wait it out, knowing that he’s probably doing it for the effect. Gog, dating Azdaja for several sweeps sure does give you a high tolerance level for unnecessary posturing.

“It was ear/ier this very night,” the tealblood resumes, “/ess than two hours ago, I joined forces with severa/ of my peers to he/p a kouhai in need. However…” His voice falters, the strength it had built up during his ramble now draining away. “Things have grown…comp/icated. They—my friend— have been invariab/y marked to face the sweet and terrib/e b/ade of imperia/ justice.”

He buries his face in his hands. “And I, as one who metaphorica//y and litera//y wie/ds that b/ade, am ca//ed upon to fu/fi// my duty.”

“so did you CULL them or WHAT?” you ask, idly picking at some specks of dried blood between the claws of your left hand.

There’s genuine horror in his eyes when he looks up at you. “_No_! I—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I cou/d not bring myse/f to unsheathe my b/ade.”

“did it get STUCK?” You wouldn’t be surprised if it had. It looks like a shitty-ass sword. If this guy ever dipped into the assassin business, he’d be better off rambling them to death than trying to use THAT thing.

“No,” dramatic pause, “for it was _I_, not the b/ade, that was caught in p/ace.”

“sounds like you just need to train your REFLEXES” you suggest. You sense an opportunity to shift the conversation away from all this legislacerator angst and more towards something in YOUR wheelhouse, like FIGHTING TECHNIQUES.

“if you want to CULL something you have to do it before they even know youre THERE” you continue, shaking a fist for emphasis. “that way they dont have time to RUN”

“I know, that, but…” The teal just looks tired, now. “I simp/y cou/d not do it. Even when a drone got invo/ved, I cou/d on/y stand by, he/p/ess to either aid or prevent that which was unfo/ding before me.”

Another pause, this one less dramatic so much as necessary, as his voice keeps on getting shakier. “I find myse/f at a terrib/e crossroads.” He says, and you actually have to lean a bit closer to hear him. “And I…it’s not the choice itse/f, it’s… it’s the fact that there _exists_ a crossroads in the first p/ace.” The words tumble out in a rush, fearful and trembling. “It shou/dn’t— I— it’s never _been_ this difficu/t, before. It’s the _/aw, _after all. The answer should be right _here._” He taps his head a few times. “But instead it’s—it’s tang/ed with a// of these _other_ thoughts, like a—a pure crysta/ that’s become tainted and c/ouded beyond all recovery and I—”

He cuts himself off to take a long, shuddering breath. “And I can’t _think_ about it anymore. It’s a// too much.”

Wow. YIKES.

This is all feeling a little too FAMILIAR, actually. Seeing as you’re probably not going to be much help solving this weird moral deathtrap this other troll has gotten himself stuck in, you instead decide to commiserate.

“yeah thinking basically SUCKS” you agree. “i dont really get all that JUSTICE stuff but i get THAT” The teal is looking down at where he’s fiddling with his hands in his lap and not at you, but he gives a slight nod, so you keep going.

You indulge yourself in rant of your own, your earlier uncertainties bubbling, uninvited, to the surface of your thinkpan. You voice your thoughts on about how everything would be so much EASIER if the world was just made of trolls that HUNT and trolls TO BE HUNTED and everyone already KNEW which one they were from day one. Then no one would have to THINK so hard about RIGHT and WRONG and all the weird messy splotches IN BETWEEN.

But NO, everything just HAS to be so weird and uncomfortable, and it sometimes seems like NOTHING you do is REALLY right or wrong. And it bothers you a LOT sometimes, because what are you even DOING if not right or wrong things? Middle things? Neutral things? UGH!

The whole stupid world is painted in shadows, and you just wish you had a LIGHT.

The teal gets more and more excited the longer you talk. “Exact/y!” he exclaims, nodding so intensely he nearly clocks you in the chin with one of his horns. “If on/y the wor/d was more simp/e. Then justice, true justice, cou/d sure/y prevai/.”

Dramatic sigh. “But a/as, we are condemned to /ive in _this_ world, shadows and a//.”

You nod sympathetically. Socially expected murder is hard. It’s hard and no one understands.

You’re beginning to take a shine to this guy, actually. It seems like he prefers to be an action-before-words kind of person, like you. Not to mention, he seems to relate to a lot of your own uncertainties about doing the right thing. It’s nice to know you aren’t the only sharp-object-toting blockhead who finds it hard to think about that kind of moral ambiguity stuff.

“so whatre you gonna DO ABOUT IT?”

“We//, what do _you_ do in such situations?”

You shrug. “usually just ask my MATESPRIT”

“And when they’re e/sewhere?”

Hm. That’s a tough one.

“just do whatever FEELS like the right thing i GUESS”

"...I guess." he repeats, his voice hollow and distant.

That didn't seem to help him much at ALL. WELP, time to change the subject.

“by the WAY” you add, “what the hell happened to your PHONE?”

To your surprise, the teal looks flustered. “I—ah. I had begun making a ca//, but due to the aforementioned turmoi/ tearing my sou/ asunder, I ended it…rather forcefu//y.”

“oh so you were calling the DRONES on that CRIMINAL FRIEND?”

The teal’s gaze remains rooted firmly in his lap, where he’s fiddling up a storm with his hands and gloves and the cuffs of his jacket. “I wish I cou/d say that was indeed the case,” he begins, “that my first and on/y instinct was to do my civic duty and summon the drones. But the truth is, I found myse/f instead ca//ing…someone e/se.”

“your MOIRAIL?”

His voice comes out as a whisper. “I wish she were.”

Oof.

“…so what did she SAY?”

“Nothing. I hung up before she cou/d say anything.”

OOF.

Instinctively, you reach out an arm to give the teal a couple of pats on the back. He nearly falls off the roof again but manages to catch himself this time.

“youll be OKAY” is the best you can come up with. “shit might hurt NOW but itll never get BETTER if you keep picking at the SCAB”

You give him one more thump on the back for good measure. He anticipates it this time, and weathers it fine. “you just focus more on YOU and not YOU AND HER, you GET ME?”

He manages an itty-bitty smile. “Yes, I get you. Which reminds me, nakama, I have yet to ask your name…?” Oh, right.

Before you can tell him, a flicker of bright yellow catches your eye. You look down and see, hovering above the intersection, a figure in a mustard-yellow coat, their edges prickling with pale blue psionics. They look like they’re searching for someone.

FINALLY!

“HEY, BULGE-FOR-BRAINS, UP HERE!” you shout, waving at your matesprit from your perch on the hivestem. You see him turn, look up, and rocket up towards you, leaving a trail of blue twinkling in his wake.

Azdaja comes to a halt hovering a few feet from the edge of the roof you’re seated on. You reach out to grab him by the waist and pull him in for an affectionate noogie.

He laughs, squirming to try and get away from your knuckles, but you’ve got him held tight. Once his hair is thoroughly mussed, you pull him in for a proper embrace. “took you long enough LOSER”

“||| Missed you too. |||” he chuckles in your ear. He pulls back a little and turns in your arms to look at your new teal friend. “||| And who is— |||”

He freezes. So does the teal, who’s staring at Azdaja with wide eyes.

Huh?

Finally, Azdaja speaks. “||| _Kalbur?_ |||” His voice is one different from any you’ve heard him use before, a mixture of shock, hope, and distaste.

“_Kne/ax_?” echoes the teal—Kalbur? —in an identical tone of voice.

Well, THAT’S kind of interesting.

“how do you guys KNOW each other?” Both their heads snap to you at your question, before quickly looking back at one another and then just as quickly looking away.

“_Anime club_” the two of them say in unison, but they _way_ they say it makes the words seem heavy with unsaid details.

“AND?”

“||| And nothing. What happened in anime club sweeps ago _stays_ there, my dear Konyyl. |||” soothes Azdaja. You catch a glimpse of him raising a hand like he’s about to pap your cheek, but he quickly lowers it.

You’ve known your matesprit has been flipping pale for you for a while now. It doesn’t bother you as much as it had a few wipes ago, when he’d REFUSED to acknowledge it no matter how much you pressed him. The more flip-slips he made, the more he denied it, and the more frustrated you had grown with him. The two of you had gotten into a LOT of screaming matches, to the point where you’d worried that your relationship with him might actually be in danger.

Things have changed since then, however. Nowadays, the two of you try to talk more openly about how you feel for each other. You’d finally settled on a position where publicly, you’re matesprits, but in private, the two of you began tentatively experimenting with pale romance, at the encouragement of your ashen quadrantmate.

It had been uncomfortable as all hell at first, but after the first few aborted piling attempts (which had mostly ended in someone either getting jabbed with a claw or getting zapped), you’d actually started getting into it. In fact, a wipe ago, after a particularly harrowing Duel Strifers tournament, you and Daja had shared your very first feelings jam.

Surprisingly, it was… REALLY, REALLY nice. Despite all the weird shit people say about red-pale vacillation, it’s been SURPRISINGLY enjoyable so far.

It makes you all the more grateful that the two of you had decided to take on your mutual alien friend as your auspistice.

Speaking of which…you should probably go and start looking for them.

“WHATEVER, keep your weeb secrets to YOURSELVES” you respond, standing up and pulling Azdaja up with you. “lets go find our FRIEND before they get found FIRST”

“||| Agreed. |||” Azdaja replies smoothly, turning away from the tealblood. “||| It’s been roughly four hours since their priority status was updated; whoever’s hunting them now might very well be getting close. |||”

Something in Daja’s words has Kalbur suddenly standing up and looking at the two of you wide-eyed. “Cu//ing priority raised four hours ago?” he echoes. “Are you sure?”

“||| That’s what I just said. |||” scoffs Azdaja. “||| If you’re going to eavesdrop, Kalbur, you may as well put some actual _effort_ into it. |||”

Okay, the two of you are SERIOUSLY going to need to jam about this later.

Kalbur looks conflicted, which, to be fair, is how he’s looked this whole entire time. Now, though, he looks EXTRA conflicted. You can practically SEE his thoughts ricocheting violently around the inside of his thinkpan.

Finally, he takes a deep, long breath and meets your gaze. He looks like he's made up his mind.

“If this is the same person I’m thinking of, I can te// you exact/y where you can find them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: huh, it's been a while since we let tegiri slip away to do his own thing. let's have him come back waaaaay later for dramatic reasons  
me @ me: but we like him tho  
me: oh god we really do like him tho


	15. Interlude 2: Of Frankly Surprising Bureaucratic Efficiency

Now, wasn’t _that_ nice? Friendships, forming over other friendships, like so many crisscrossing threads in a grand tapestry, all those pretty colors lined side-by-side. Oh, how predictably and obediently they dance when their weak little hearts are tested. Quite a testament to the weaver’s skill, isn’t it, that they should manage to enact such wondrous designs using such brittle strings?

Pay no attention to the man behind the loom, says the man behind the loom. If you linger too long on the storyteller, you’ll miss the story.

We shall now turn our attention, in a seamless and not-at-all abrupt transition, to imperial culling database. It appears that a good chunk of information has just been supplied to one of the files within. If one were to open the file, regardless of whether or not they had the clearance to do so, and began to read, this is what they would see:

A dronecam picture of a small, hornless figure in an ablutionrobe. That hasn’t changed.

We scroll down a bit.

\--

NAME: UNKNOWN 

AGE: UNKNOWN 

CASTE: CONFIRMED BLOOD MUTATION, HUE #FF0800

\--

Hm. No changes there. Perhaps if we scrolled down just a bit further…

\--

AFFILIATES: 4 SUSPECTED; SEE REPORT ATTACHED BELOW 

\--

Ah. Well. That’s new. Let’s keep reading, shall we? That is, after all, what you’re here to do.

\--

CRIMINAL OFFENSES (PREVIOUS): [REDACTED] by LL Kasund, T. 

CRIMINAL OFFENSES (AS OF DATE 06D.22P.932S): 

EXTREME PROXIMITY TO CULLING DRONE NO. 111111 AT 0900HRS ON DATE 06D.22P.932S INITIATED INVESTIGATION. INVESTIGATION STATUS: COMPLETE. 

VIEW INVESTIGATION REPORT? ==>

\--

Yes, let’s. It seems narratively relevant.

\--

=> GENERAL FINDINGS: 

Culling drone no. 111111 reported offline at 0900hrs shortly after identification of MUTANT TROLL. Investigation of site confirmed destruction of drone. Drone discovered in proximity to structure with NO REGISTERED INHABITANTS. Articles recovered from structure suggest 84.657% chance that structure was illegally appropriated as HIVE/BASE OF OPERATIONS by subject. 

=> BIOLOGICAL ANALYSIS: 

Blood samples collected from hive confirmed blood hue #FF0800. Results of hemogenetic analysis are as follows: 

Sequenced genome of subject refutes previous identification as MUTANT TROLL. Forensic scientargeters recommend updated classification from MUTANT TROLL to EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPECIES. 

Hemogenetic analysis further indicates high base biochemical similarity to blood composition of troll species. Risk of extraterrestrial contaminating the incestuous slurry with mutated genetic material: ???%. Further examination of extraterrestrial biology required. 

=> EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPECIES NAME: PENDING; SPECIES NOT PREVIOUSLY RECORDED 

=> EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPECIES STATUS: HOSTILE 

=> DETAILS OF CONTACT: 

ANALYSIS OF RECOVERED DRONECAM FOOTAGE 

  * Extraterrestrial has been ACTIVE on Alternia for 3.58P.
  * Extraterrestrial is UNACCOMPANIED by others of its species. UNKNOWN if scouting for invasive species; see ANALYSIS OF ONLINE ACTIVITY.
  * Extraterrestrial has initiated ONE-ON-ONE CONTACT with individual trolls within and including castes RUST to PURPLE. Motives for contact: UNKNOWN.

ANALYSIS OF ONLINE ACTIVITY 

  * Extraterrestrial is FULLY LITERATE IN COMMON ALTERNIAN.
  * Extraterrestrial has used social media platform CHITTR for 4.46W. Public status is “alien invasion of one”. NO FURTHER DETAILS OF INVASION CURRENTLY LISTED. (Note: validity of statement UNRELIABLE. Possibility that alien is enlisted in larger invasion effort still UNCONFIRMED.) 
  * Extraterrestrial has OPINIONS ON POPULAR CULTURE.
  * Chittr account has FOLLOWER COUNT of 30. Accounts of followers currently under close examination to assess DEGREE OF COLLUSION with EXTRATERRESTRIAL. Investigation of photographs and videos posted by followers confirms close affiliation with the following: CARMIA, HERMOD, XOLOTO.

\--

Goodness. How terribly stressful this must be for you. Perhaps we ought to turn away, now.

Oh, what’s this? There’s one more page on the report.

\--

=> PROPOSED RESPONSES TO EXTRATERRESTRIAL THREAT:

\- Update official culling priority from MEDIUM—HIGH to HIGH 

\- Post available photographs and warnings of alien invasion threat to ALL PUBLIC FEEDS 

\- Raise current bounty posted to mercenary network from 1,000C to 100,000C 

\- Deploy additional drone squadron to OUTGLUT, THRASHTHRUST 

\- Arrest and interrogate trolls with castenames KASUND, CARMIA, HERMOD, XOLOTO

=> STATUS OF PROPOSED RESPONSES: ACCEPTED. PROCEED TO ENACT IMMEDIATELY.

\--

Well! It seems as though things are finally picking up. I do hope you’re enjoying yourself.

I, for one, certainly am.


	16. Of Professionalism and Pretense, Discarded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma keep it real w you chief, the timeline for this fic is a mess but things sure are happening

**A FEW HOURS EARLIER**

Your name is MARSTI HOUTEK and if you’re starting to wonder if what this hive needs is an exterminator and not a janitor, because it sounds like there’s a pack of rabid anthraccoons in there.

Your grip on the handle of your trusty brush pole stiffens a bit as another muffled _CRACK_ sounds from behind the closed double doors a few feet ahead of you. A few harsh _thuds_ follow in its wake, like heavy objects—or footsteps—hitting the ground, and then silence falls once more.

Normally you don’t hesitate at all when it comes to getting a cleaning job done, with one exception—if the situation seems shady as shit, cut your losses and leave to clean another day. And this? This thing that’s happening right now? Standing on the doorstep of another troll’s hive, trying to assess a series of violent noises coming from within? It’s starting to feel a _lot_ like a leave-to-clean-another-day scenario.

The weird thing about this situation is the fact that this is, in fact, _exactly_ where you’re supposed to be right now. Or, at least, you’d thought it was. Did you get the wrong hive?

You use the hand not holding a brush pole over your shoulder to dig around in the pockets of your work apron until you find your palmhusk. It’s an older model, a flip-top with clunky buttons and a tiny screen. It suits your needs just fine, though. Even if you _had_ the desire to splurge your hard-earned savings on a smarthusk (which would probably just be rendered obsolete by a newer model within wipes of the purchase), the touchscreen would be no good at all for someone who constantly wears gloves. Gloves regularly encrusted in garbage.

It just wouldn’t be worth it.

You click over to your most recent text conversation to reread the address your friend had given you. 02 Goremonger Lane, just past the intersection with the giant culling fork statue, Outglut, Thrashthrust, at the very edge of the highblood district. You look up, confirming that the number on the gaudy plaque outside of the hive matches the one in the address. Yep. It’s the place, all right.

You pocket the husk and take another good look at the place.

On those occasions when your janitorial work brings you to the door of someone’s hive, you don’t tend to spend much time contemplating their architectural decisions. You are, after all, a professional; your business is to deal strictly with the messes, and the messes _only_. Still, this hive is so elaborate that even _you_ can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Are those _turrets_?

Another loud _CRACK_ sounds from within. Even though it’s probably the fifth or sixth suspicious noise you’ve heard it during the five minutes you’ve been stood here, it still startles you, your grip on the brush pole reflexively tightening. This time, it sounds a whole lot like a large and heavy object being smashed against a wall, followed by a series of smaller _clacks_ and _thunks_, presumably the tragic remains of said object. Unlike the last few times, however, the noise is followed by a high, auricular-sponge-piercing wail, anguished and undeniably trollish in nature.

Somehow, the knowledge that it is a troll and _not_ a wild beast rampaging inside doesn’t do much to assuage the sense of foreboding prickling icily at the back of your neck.

After several long minutes of silence, you steel yourself and decide to try the doorknob. If it’s locked, you’ll leave immediately. And if it isn’t…well, you were promised a job like no other, and considering how little you have going on for you right now, you’re pretty sure that you’re well-entitled to a pleasure as simple as getting to wreck the hell out of some stains with your scrub pole.

Besides, you’re just here to do your job at the appointed time and place you’d agreed to. It’s none of _your_ business if the employer decides to throw a shitfit at the same time.

The painfully ornate doorknob turns beneath your hand without resistance, and one of the doors swings wide open. As you carefully wheel your scourdray into the hive (and the door shuts itself spookily behind you), you have to blink a few times to adjust to the dimmed lighting, as most of the windows are curtained in what appear to be richly patterned cerulean drapes.

When your eyes adjust, you find that you’re standing in what was probably once a very classy rumpusblock, judging by the quality of the furniture and carpeting. However, whatever opulence it might have once had is detracted from by its current state of disarray. You automatically assess the damage: three spindly little end tables upended, five broken legs between them; the fragmented remains of a scalded-leaf-juice-pot and cups scattered at the base of the far wall; a couple of loungeplank cushions on the floor…

All in all, it’s a pretty generic mess. You’d honestly been expecting something more impressive, based on what your friend has told you about this cerulean, but this just looks like the aftermath of a prissy tantrum.

In the center of this wasteland of splintered wood and china is a troll, sat curled up in the corner of a loungeplank, hugging her knees to their chest. She doesn’t seem to have noticed your entry into her hive, or maybe she just doesn’t care.

Even in this dim lighting, you can see the trembling of her shoulders. Her face is hidden behind a curtain of long, dark hair, but it does nothing to mask the sounds she’s making. The painful, choking sobs and sharp sniffles stab into the air, bleeding into every corner of the room.

After several minutes of standing awkwardly in a dark room full of trash while your supposed employer bawls into her knees, you decide to make your presence known. You clear your mealtunnel, once, wincing a little at how loud it comes out.

The cerulean reacts immediately, her face popping up to give you a look of complete and utter shock, three—three?—bloodshot eyes blown open wide, framed in twin circles of smeary black and blue. Shock turns quickly to outrage, and she scrambles off the loungeplank to stand and face you, teeth bared in a sneer. “who are you?” she hisses, while attempting, uselessly, to wipe at her face with the back of her hand. “and what giiives you the _audacity_ to just _walk _on iiinto _my_ hiiive?”

Huh. Seems like she really didn’t know you were coming today. Well, _that’s_ just great. You just _love_ standing around and giving inane explanations of things that should be completely obvious to the common observer, especially when there are _much_ better things you could be doing. (Cleaning this place up, for instance.)

You choose to abstain from voicing these frustrations, forcing your voice to adopt the neutral, inoffensive tone you reserve for highbloods. “Janitor” you utter in response, gesturing unnecessarily to your scourdray by way of explanation. “I was told you needed one. Did Vikare not mention I was coming today? -_-”

The cerulean troll looks like she’s trying to regain some semblance of composure, scrubbing viciously and almost desperately at her smeary eyes and nose using the hem of the large black shawl she’s got draped over herself before responding to your question. ““_Viiikare?_”” she spits out. “iii don’t know anyone by _that_ name.” She fixes you with a watery glare. “explaiiin yourself now, or iii’ll call my lusus iiin to make iiit so you wiiish you’d never been hatched.” As she says this, you think you hear something from deeper in the hive, a sharp, insectoid clicking. Did they rehearse that, or something?

You resist the temptation to heave a massive sigh. It just keeps on getting better, doesn’t it? Not that you’re holding this mix-up against Vikare, or anything. Clearly what’s going on here is more of an issue with the highblood.

You may, however, give your friend a bit of well-deserved flack for this the next time you see him, because he’d mentioned a “~ Real whopper !~” of a mess that needed cleaning, and what you’re seeing right now is honestly completely underwhelming.

“Vikare. Big guy, bronze, huge goggles. -_-” You deadpan, tapping your own goggles for emphasis. “Comes around here to pick up supplies, or something. Him? -_-”

All three of the cerulean’s eyes widen at your description, and then her nose crinkles in disgust. “oh, _Viiikare?_ you mean that diiirtblood who comes to pick up the leftover troll bones once every few wiiipes?”

“Yes, that’s him,” you reply, carefully deciding not to ask why this highblood has so many bones to give away in the first place. “he told me you have a basement that needs cleaning, and that he’d set something up. He didn’t text you, or...? -__-”

You try not to let too much excitement bleed into your voice when you mention The Basement. Sure, sure, Vikare has a huge tendency to overexaggerate—no, scratch that, it’s more of an inbuilt speech mannerism than it is a tendency—but you’re badly hoping it’s as bad a mess as he’s made it out to be. Although you’ve done cleaning jobs at highbloods’ houses before, you’ve yet to get your mitts and sponges on— and you quote— “~ A truly astounding vista of all things fetid and foul! Oh, how those dank and lonely walls must cry for the merciful touch of a scrub brush! And Marsti, there were _so many bones_! ~”

… That last one’s more his thing than it is yours, what with his weird projects and all, but still, the challenge was too good to resist.

“iii wouldn’t know” sniffs the cerulean, arms crossed. “iii don’t answer texts from lowbloods.”

Oh. Well. Guess that explains how _this_ current situation came to be. Wonderful.

“Do you think you could check? -__-” you ask, carefully. Even as you say it, you’re reaching for the handle of your scourdray, preparing yourself to be ejected from the hive. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The cerulean girl opens her mouth, presumably to make another snide comment. Then she seems to change her mind. Her mouth shuts with a _snap_, and when she looks at you, there’s something there, just behind the veneer of disdain. You can see it in the way her shoulders scrunch and then slump, in the way her hands come up to clutch at her shawl, in the flatness of her gaze. It looks like an acquiescence.

And then it’s gone. When she meets your gaze again, it’s with a sour expression. “You know what?” she explodes, “go ahead!” She extends one arm from beneath her shawl, jabbing one sharp, painted nail at a door on the other side of the rumpusblock. “clear iiit out. clear out _everythiiing_. all of iiit. iii won’t be neediiing any of iiit, not anymore.” Her voice cracks at this admission. “my career iiis _over_.”

At this, she flops back onto the couch, throwing one arm theatrically over her face. “iiit’s _over_, you hear me?” she wails. “iii’m _done_. iii’ll never make another viiideo. iii’ll just be another forgotten artiiist, languiiishiiing iiin ruiiin and obscuriiity, unrecogniiized duriiing my liiifetiiime. another viiisiiionary, sacriiifiiiced in the name of the status quo, all because my art dared to subvert iiit and break expectatiiions. oh, what a _fool_ iii was for even tryiiing.” She cackles bitterly.

Sensing your cue to leave, you start wheeling your scourdray as surreptitiously as you can to the door leading out of the rumpusblock. You don’t take your eyes off the cerulean as you do so, just in case.

Her voice increases steadily in volume as she continues. “and won’t they all be so _sorry_ once iii’m gone!” she howls. “they’ll be prostratiiing themselves at my grave, all my greatest criiitiiics and oppressors, mourning the day they let such an _iiicon_ pass from thiiis planet without the praiiise she deserved. oh, they’ll be _sorry_, all riiight!” Her voice gains a maniacal quality to it the longer she goes on. “they’ll _all_ be sorry for what they diiid to me!”

Halfway to the door, you’re still watching your employer’s tantrum from the corner of your eye when it happens. Abruptly, the cerulean sits up and grabs something off a nearby end table, one of the few not destroyed in her earlier rampage. It’s a small ornament about the length of her hand, some elegant abstract shape made out of crystal, with a flat base. She seems to be looking at a small plaque on the base of the object. Her face twists in anguish.

““GrubTuber of the Sweep”.” she hisses to herself. “yeah, _riiight_. hypocriiites, all of them…”

As she says this, the hand holding the small trophy raises, with clear intent to smash the little statue on the end table.

The angle is all wrong. 

You barely register the sound of your brush pole clattering to the ground as you cross the room in two strong, decisive strides, seizing the ceruleanblood’s wrist before she can bring it down.

Her startled gaze swivels to you for the second time that evening, her mouth falling open. Then, before you know it, you’re being forced back, your limbs wheeling stiffly and clumsily backward, moving not of your own free will. Your head is yanked painfully to face the cerulean, whose sign is a glowing icon on her forehead. You don’t need to read her expression to know you’ve made a grave mistake.

“how _dare_ you touch me, fiiilth.” She snaps, holding her wrist protectively to her chest. She’s still holding the little trophy. “iii should feed you to my lusus for your iiinsolence. iii let you iiinto my home, iii offer you work, and thiiis iiis how you repay me?”

Actually, you had to let _yourself_ in, but sure.

You feel the paralysis holding your entire body in place lessen very slightly about your head. “explaiiin yourself.” barks the cerulean girl, lifting her chin so she can look down her nose at you. “go on, scum, beg for your liiife. iii’ll giiive you one chance to save yourself.”

Oh, wonderful. Your would-be murderer clearly has a humiliation kink. In any case, it gives you a chance to pull yourself from the fire.

“If you smashed the statue at that angle,” you answer, straining to move your jaw against the paralysis, “you’d have severed the radial pumptube in your wrist -_-”

You’ve seen it happen before, too. Bars and dayclubs are some of your most consistent sources of work, and not a day goes by in those places without some idiot who tries to smash a bottle and immediately ends up with a palmful of glass. Turns out it’s not as easy as it looks on TV.

The ceruleanblood balks visibly at this, looking from the trophy still clutched in her hand to the table and back again before returning her gaze to you, three eyes narrowing in suspicion. Well, that’s a hell of a lot better than bloody murder, you guess.

“how would you know that? you’re just a janiiitor.” Her voice wavers even as she says it.

“Experience -__-” you deadpan.

There’s a pause. Then, the cerulean reaches out to place the little trophy back on the end table, with exaggerated care, as though it might suddenly explode. 

When she turns back to face you, you see the glowing cerulean brand on her forehead dissolve. Immediately, you find yourself able to relax your limbs again, to your immense relief.

“my miiistake.” says the ceruleanblood, stiffly. She seems calm, now, excepting the way she refuses to look you in the eye, and the way her fangs are digging into the corner of her bottom lip.

It’s not much of an apology, but you’ll take it. Now that you think about it, what you just did—stopping her hurting herself on instinct—was _dangerously_ close to a pale advance. On a highblood, no less. That considered, you’re actually pretty lucky she didn’t cull you immediately.

That sorted, you gratefully take your leave of the cerulean troll, taking your brush pole and your scourdray full of supplies and heading towards the through the door she’d gestured to earlier, so you can finally get down to doing what it is you’ve been waiting for: cleaning out The Basement. _Finally_.

The door turns out to lead into a nutrition block, on the far side of which is an open door through which a staircase is visible. The nutrition block is better-illuminated than the rumpusblock was— on account of the open window above the sink— which is good, because it means you can immediately spot the bloated white tick lusus in the corner, curled up in a pile of offal and bone fragments.

You eye it warily, but it doesn’t seem to care about your presence, gnawing idly on a chunk of rotting cartilage. Nevertheless, you make your way over to the stairs with extreme caution.

The Basement turns out to be even better a challenge than Vikare made it out to be. As you carefully wheel the scourdray over the last few steps, you’re hit with a smell that sends your thinkpan _reeling_. It smells like concentrated death. You retrieve a face mask from the cart and strap it on before entering The Basement proper.

The room is medium-sized, littered with half-finished DIY furniture—tables and chairs, mostly—all of it coated in huge, flaking dried bloodstains. Nuts and bolts and nails, as well as scraps of wood and metal and fabric, are littered across every available surface. Against the far wall is a row of troll-sized cages, all empty, but something about the smell in here tells you they’re probably not regularly cleaned. On the only relatively clean patch of floor sits a tripod and camera, the recording light switched off.

(There are, of course, no bones.)

An invigorating warmth fills your chest as you assess the room. Everywhere you look, it’s just chaos and neglect and _waste_, clinging to every last inch of the room like it owns the place.

You’re well and truly impressed. It’s not the most elaborate torture dungeon you’ve ever seen, but it’s no doubt the least well-maintained. And, as always, you love a good challenge.

As you prepare to go into battle, carefully mixing the cleaning chemicals in their proper ratios and ripping open a fresh pack of sponges, you make a mental note to thank Vikare later on for setting up the job.

You’d only met Vikare a perigee ago, although it feels like much longer. You’d been on your way back from cleaning up a rec center downtown. However, as you recall, it hadn’t been enough. You’d still had that _itch_, that feeling of unease and restlessness pricking relentlessly at your skin.

The idea of just going back to your hive and staring at the sparse collection of furnishings and knickknacks you’d arranged and rearranged and re-re-arranged a thousand times over had made you feel a lurch of nausea. So, you’d opted to take a longer route home, one that would lead you through several of Outglut’s seedier and murkier alleys.

It was a pretty stupid move, you realized in hindsight. Still, in this particular instance, it had been unexpectedly fortuitous.

Four alleys in, you’d stumbled over the outstretched legs of a bronzeblood corpse.

Conceding to yourself that dead bodies probably counted as litter, you’d made to heft the body into the nearest dumpster, only to abruptly stop halfway into this process on account of the corpse’s sudden “~ Good gog, what a terrible smell that is! ~”

Once you’d gotten the other troll sat on the ground and not half-stuffed in a dumpster, you’d set about treating his injuries, the most severe of which had been a badly broken strut stick. You’d set enough broken limbs to know just how poorly conscious trolls tend to react to the experience, and so you’d unceremoniously forced a sopor-based analgesic in between the dazed troll’s jaws to numb the pain.

Here’s the thing about sopor and sopor-containing products—they work a little differently for everyone. In the case of this troll, who you quickly learned was named Vikare Ratite, it turned him into a wide-open book. As you carefully worked on setting his grotesquely broken strut stick into a position where it could heal properly, he’d basically talked your ear off, openly and cheerfully telling you his whole life story. Despite your efforts to tune him out, you’d quickly learned his name, his status as a pilot-in-training, as well as the very unique dream he harbored— non-interstellar flight.

“~ Can you imagine it? ~” he’d sighed, dreamily, head resting back against the alley wall as he gazed up at the sky. “~ To soar beneath the moons, weightless and free as a flapbeast? ~”

“Mmhmm -_-” you’d replied, absently, while trying to work out which direction his knee should be pointed in.

You’d also learned he was an inventor, with a very…_interesting_ choice in building materials. What you’d originally mistaken for some weird vest was, in fact, a set of wings—_wings!_— he’d constructed from scratch, using troll bones for the frame and covering it all with a patchwork of fabrics from old clothes of his.

Apparently, he’d been trying to glide from rooftop to rooftop as practice, but the wings had given out while he was midway across, sending him plummeting into an alley.

“~ And here we are. ~” he’d slurred, waving a hand vaguely at the surroundings.

“Here we are -_-” you’d agreed, while trying to work out how you were going to lug this troll back to the lowblood district proper.

When he’d sobered up, a few hours later, he’d been mortified. He’d pleaded with you to keep his pursuits of non-interstellar flight a secret, fearing ridicule; you’d assured him that you had no intention of outing him for his strange hobby. You’re not one to judge other trolls for wanting more than what life has handed them. You reserve _that_ kind of criticism for yourself and yourself only.

You’d later disclosed to him, in confidence, your _own_ impossible interest—medicull practise. After all, he probably would have guessed that himself anyways, considering your questionable ownership of a fully stocked medicull kit, complete with analgesics and disinfectants.

Still, you’re not totally sure why you felt so compelled to say it. Perhaps you just felt the need to actually _admit_ it to yourself, after all those times you’d found yourself sneaking peeks into medic training manuals and textbooks at the public bookhive, even as you vehemently denied to yourself and others the idea that you ever wanted to be anything more than a janitor. Sure, it’s a stupid dream for someone in your position. Despite that, you might as well own up to it, even if it’s just to yourself and a few people you trust.

Since that first encounter, you’ve actually managed to maintain a surprisingly stable friendship with the bronzeblood. You don’t actually get much time to hang out, considering that you’re always working and that he has pilot training for forty hours a wipe, but you do your best to support each other. Sometimes it’s things like Vikare sneaking you medicull supplies from the small infirmary at the spaceport, and you, in turn, collecting potential building materials for his flight machines and depositing them in the dumpster near his house, or, at other times, it’s something as simple as chipping in to pay for a nice dinner to split between you.

All in all, it’s not a bad arrangement. You’d never thought yourself as one for friendships, but ever since you met that strange little alien, you’re discovering increasingly that friendship may, in fact, be an experience you enjoy.

Huh.

It takes you two full hours to clean The Basement, and you enjoy it immensely. By the time you’re depositing the very last rusty nail in a trash bag, you’re on your third pair of gloves, you’re bone-tired, and all you can smell is chemicals and soap. In short, it’s been a good, good night.

You carefully drag the scourdray back up the stairs and into the nutrition block, where the tick lusus appears to be snoozing, to your relief. A quick look around reveals that there doesn’t seem to be a back door in the nutrition block, which means the nearest exit is the one you came in from. Carefully, hesitantly, you re-enter the rumpusblock.

It's still a mess, but some changes have definitely taken place during the last hour and a half. For one thing, the lights are on, now. The first thing you see is the cerulean troll, pacing back and forth across the room, typing furiously into her palmhusk and muttering to herself. The worst of her freakout seems to be over, as her face is clean, and her makeup has been reapplied. A quick scan of the room itself reveals that all the broken furniture has been shoved carelessly against the wall, leaving the floor clear for her to pace.

You wonder if she’s expecting you to take care of that, too. Frankly, you’d rather not; as much as you enjoy the act of cleaning, you haven’t eaten anything yet today, and taking care of the basement was _exhausting_. If you’re going to pass out from fatigue and hunger anywhere, you’d rather it wasn’t _here_, thanks very much.

You begin carefully approaching the cerulean to inform her the job is done. Come to think of it, what was her name? Vikare surely mentioned it to you at some point, but it’s slipped your mind, probably because you’ve been more concerned about her possibly murdering you and feeding you to her lusus.

Well, whatever. The job’s done. All you need to worry about right now is her agreeing to pay your standard fee for the cleaning job.

When you’re within five feet of her, the cerulean’s head whips around to look at you. “what?!” she snaps, although it’s with less venom and more…panic?

“Job’s finished -_-” you state.

“o-oh? oh! well—well—that’s just wonderful!” she rambles, her voice high-pitched and bordering on hysterical. “good! y-you can just— show yourself out, then!”

“Is everything alright? -_-” The question falls from your lips without thinking.

“_alriiight?_” She laughs, sounding more than little unhinged. “_no!”_

For some reason, you feel that familiar itch again, the one that buzzes ceaselessly in your head and your fingertips, that feeling like you _need_ to fix something, cleanse something, mend something, heal something, that feeling you get when you find a mess that seems almost impossible to clear away, and yet compels you to try anyways.

Which is weird, because you already took _care_ of the basement. Maybe it’s just a lingering buzz.

The cerulean is pacing again, only this time she’s ranting aloud. “_fiiirst, _iii get _hacked_, and iii lose one of my hiiighest-viiiewed viiideos” she rages. “even the _backup_ copiiies were gone! _then_, iii lose fifteen subscriiibers in one fell swoop, all because they thiiink iii took down the viiideo. _fiiifteen! _how dare they, those ungrateful, unloyal, aliiien-fetiiishiiist _scumbags_—”

Abruptly, she stops pacing and whirls around to face you. “and guess what? guess what _just happened_?” she asks, panic rising in her tone. “the damn _empiiire_ sends me an alert, telliiing me to submiiit one of my viiideos for an iiimperiiial iiinvestiiigatiiion.”

She cackles once, mirthlessly and in complete terror. “_can you guess whiiich viiideo they want?”_

You’ve got a pretty good idea of which one it is.

She throws her hands in the air, “_the only one iii can’t giiive them!”_

Well. Fuck. That’s pretty bad. Still, at the end of the day, she’s a highblood. She’ll probably be granted leniency for—

Wait. Did she just say _alien_-fetishist?

And if the actual _empire’s_ looking for videos of them, then…

“Check the public news feeds ·_·” you cut her off, with a forcefulness that surprises even you.

The ceruleanblood looks at you, startled. “what?”

“My husk doesn’t have internet. Please, just do it ·_·”

She complies, surprisingly.

The very first thing that comes up is a high-priority cull alert from the Empire. With the alien’s face on it.

You distantly register the ceruleanblood girl freaking out, but you aren’t paying attention; you can’t take your eyes off the cull alert. You stare numbly at the alien’s face, your thinkpan feebly grasping at half-thoughts as it tries to process what the hell is even happening.

How…how could this? — when did they…? — why…? — who could have…?

Disbelief is replaced quickly by outrage, flaring up in a sharp, painful burst before being just as quickly extinguished by the cold, insidious tendrils of despair.

Why _them_? Why _now?_ Why would the Empire want to crush someone so small, so pathetic, so powerless to—

Oh, right. That’s _exactly_ what they do.

But what can you do now?

As far as social power goes, you’re barely better off than them—a rustblood janitor who can barely afford to eat twice a day, let alone save a friend condemned by the Empire. What you say and think and hope and believe weighs _nothing_ to them. To the Empire, you _are_ nothing.

There’s nothing you can do to change this. Nothing at all.

And yet.

You know that if you stay quiet, if you hide from this, if you allow yourself to do nothing, _you will never forgive yourself._

An idea occurs to you, then, an unexpected spark in the void. You immediately dig out your ancient palmhusk and begin dialing a number you know by heart; it’s faster than trying to click all the way to the speed dial menu.

“what are you—” you hear the ceruleanblood start; you automatically shoosh her just as someone on the other line picks up.

“~ _Why, Marsti, my good companion! How have you been? ~”_

“Are you at space pilot academy right now? ·_·”

“_~ As a matter of fact, I am! I don’t have class for another twelve minutes, though, so we’re all right and dandy to talk until then. Are you alright? You sound rather— ~”_

“No time to explain. I need you to find a ship, any ship. Just make sure it’s one that no one’s going to be using for a while. Find the ship, then do whatever you can to get the access codes for it, then stand by. You got that? ·_·”

“~ _Yes, I hear you just fine, but why— ~”_

“Check the news feeds -_-”

A pause, and then— “_~ OH! IS THAT— ~”_

“Yes. Call me back when the ship is secure, okay? -_- ”

“_~ Right-o! I’ll get on that tout-suite! ~”_

“Great, I’ll find the alien. Good luck -_- ”

You hang up and start making a beeline for the door of the hive, grabbing your scourdray and pulling it along behind you on the way there, your thinkpan racing. To your knowledge, the alien is also friends with two goldbloods who hang out in the alleys not too far from where you live, and one of them is a hacker to boot. If you can find them, you can use their skills to access the dronecam system, and from there it shouldn’t be long until—

_“waiiit!”_

You don’t even bother suppressing the sigh this time. You turn. “What? -____- ”

You’re surprised to see that the cerulean’s entire face is flushed a dark blue.

“diiid you _shoosh_ me just now?” she demands.

Oh. Huh. You guess you did?

Oddly enough, you can’t find it in you to regret it.

“…Maybe. -_- ”

“_maybe_?!”

* * *

Your name is CIRAVA HERMOD and there is a drone outside your door.

That’s really all there is to say on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat* M-MARDATA?!


	17. Of Interruptions and Interactions, Highly Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this week has been all kinds of academic-based hell and the next promises to be worse, so i'm putting this one up a little early to give myself some extra time and space.
> 
> it's DEFINITELY not because i ended up writing fanfic instead of working on said academics. CERTAINLY not.

Your name is BOLDIR LAMATI, and y—

(that’s far enough.)

Oh.

Uh?

(kindly move the cursor away from that sentence you just started.)

S-sure?

(now.)

Okay, done. Sentence aborted. Even added a hyphen at the end.

(thank you.)

You’re welcome? Sorry, I just wasn’t at all expecting this. Normally, starting a new chapter doesn’t involve anything like… this?

(anything like resistance, I assume.)

I was going to say “interruption”, but yeah, that works too.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume this is a bad time, so I guess I’ll just…come back later, then? Sorry about that. I’ll just, uh…move along to someone else.

Your name is –

(there’s not going to _be_ a “later”.)

wait what

(sorry, that was unnecessarily ominous.)

A _little_ bit, yeah!

(i only meant that you aren’t going to be narrating _me_ “later”.)

Oh. Um. Okay?

(in fact, i'd rather you didn’t narrate me at all, if that’s on the table.)

I _guess_? It’ll be a bit of a hassle to write around, but I can handle it.

(…)

…

(hm. this is going a lot more smoothly than i'd thought it would.)

Yeah, I’m not big on confrontations.

(…you’re not _him_, are you.)

I’m not.

(…)

(you could be lying to me, but i don’t think you are. there’s something different about your narrative voice. it's more…)

Respectful? Not-creepy? Physically readable without having to highlight the entire page?

(…tolerable.)

…Thanks? Yeah, I’m not too big on _that_ guy, either. Or the other guy, or the other other guy.

(seems like there are quite a number of “guys” with poorly regulated access to the narrative controls.)

_Hoo_, yeah. _Lotta_ guys up in there. Not enough gals, in my opinion. Although, I guess that’s why this site exists? To give other folks a try at the wheel, no consequences?

Wait. _Are _there consequences?

Hold up, hold up. Should I really be talking to you like this? Is this going to mess something up? Are you supposed to even _know_ about any of this meta stuff?

(i’m not supposed to know a lot of the things i know. that's kind of a fundamental keystone of my character.)

Yeah, okay, fair.

(thank you. now, if you don’t mind, i'd like to get down to business.)

Um, okay. And what business would that be?

(in case you haven’t realized it already, i’m not exactly keen on letting narrators into my head.)

Hence the tinfoil hat?

(hence the tinfoil hat. i'm a little curious as to how you know about that about me, actually.)

Er, well, it’s kind of hard to explain.

(mmhmm.)

I’m really not the right person to explain it, honestly. Most of the really deep meta-existential babble goes so far over my head that it exits the atmosphere.

The best way I can explain it is that…we share a mutual friend? Only the friend is me, but also not me? Uh. Do you know what assigned kins are, or—?

(based on my initial impressions of you, as well as how you’ve acted in relation to me, my guess is it that your existence, and your experience of knowing me, is somehow tied to the peculiar little alien currently sitting next to me.)

_Heck._

(is that right?)

Oh, definitely. Bullseye. Damn, you’re really good at this.

(i am, thank you.)

How did you know?

(it’s something about the way you talk.)

(or write, i suppose. perhaps “project” is the correct term, here?)

I honestly don’t think there _is_ a correct term, but sure, “project” sounds fine.

(back to the matter at hand. i have nothing against you specifically—i’m sure you’ve done an admirable job at handling characters thus far—but i’m afraid this just isn’t going to work.)

… I understand. Honestly, I don’t even know what I was thinking. Matter of fact, it’s… kind of a relief? Trying to write you probably would have taken ages, and even then, I don’t know that I could have done you justice. Other narrators on this site, maybe, but I think I’d have ended up writing you as being far simpler than you actually are.

(don’t sell yourself short. no doubt you have some ways to go, but that’s not to say you’ll never reach that point.)

Oh, thanks!

(that said, i'm not going to let you write me.)

Yeah, we’ve pretty much established that at this point. Actually, I just got an idea for how this can work out for both of us.

(oh?)

Third-person POV. You get your privacy, I get to move the plot forward using you—er, that is to say, I’ll just be focusing on you’re doing, not on what you’re thinking.

(…)

(hmm.)

You have my word. No more poking at that head of yours, not from me.

(and how do i know you won’t assume the viewpoint of another character and use them to remove my hat, exposing me to your narrative wiles?)

Okay, _first_ of all, I think we _both_ know that your ability to detect intruding narrators is all _you_. The tinfoil-lined hat has nothing to do with literally anything. Besides complementing your aesthetic, I mean.

(a good observation, even if it’s founded on dubiously acquired knowledge.)

_Secondly_, even the hat _did_ give you magical narrator-repelling powers, there’s no _way_ I could use another character to take it. I can’t use my powers to make people do things they’d never actually do, and I can think of literally no single character ballsy enough to try and steal your fedora.

(except that you’re working in a narrative space where the concept of “OOC” is completely exploitable as a means of moving the plot wherever you want.)

_I’m_ _not going to do that_. Trust me on this, Boldir. I know you don’t know me, but I…I’d like to think I know you as a friend. Or _through_ a friend? Whatever.

The _point_ is, I care about you a whole lot. I really do. And yes, I’m going to be putting you and the others through some rough times, which, now that I project it out on the page, sounds _completely_ contradictory to what I just said, but believe me, I care. I wouldn’t be writing this otherwise.

(…)

What I’m saying is, I just…really like you guys? And I want to see more of you? That’s… basically it. And if you don’t want me in your head, or in your life, I get that. I’ll back off. You already have your hands full fending off ONE interfering narrator, let alone two.

(… i appreciate that.)

No problem, you’re completely amazing at what you do and you’re totally inspiring in how you don’t allow yourself to be manipulated by anyone and oh dear god is this just turning into self-insert Me x Boldir?? It is, isn’t it?

Oh god, I cannot _believe_ this, that’s it, fic canceled—

(no, don’t. it’s alright.)

It is?

(you’ve given me a chance to spend more time with a dear friend. i'd like to make the most of the time i have left with them, before…_ something_ happens to them.)

…

(you don’t have to tell me what’s coming. i already know.)

…

(he’s coming for them soon, isn’t he? i can feel it.)

…

(…)

…

(i'll leave you to continue your story, now. third-person, if you don’t mind.)

Of course.

* * *

In a two-person hive on the tealblood block of Outglut, Thrashthust, an olive-blooded troll opens her eyes, and breathes.

The hive is full of trolls, chattering and unwinding with the ease of people who believe the worst is behind them.

The oliveblood knows otherwise.

She looks to her right. Beside her on the loungeplank, dozing with their head resting lightly on her side, is a peculiar little alien, a humanoid whose nondescript body is marked with a startling number of shallow cuts and bruises.

Now, however, their state is far less distressing than it had been a few hours ago. The bits of them visible to a passing observer are peppered in band-aids and plasters of various prints and colors, and their breathing is steady and even against the olive girl’s ribs. The rest of them is wrapped in a clean, dry teal bathrobe marked with initials S.S.

The oliveblood, whose name is BOLDIR LAMATI, absently strokes their cheek, a little smile dimpling her round face when the alien’s face scrunches at the sensation.

Sufficiently bolstered, the oliveblood removes her hand, pulls a slim husktop from the indeterminable depths of her trench coat, and gets to work.

Over the next forty-two minutes, a great number of things are made to happen.

The culling database is hacked into for what _has_ to be the fourth or fifth time that night (and is unlikely to be the last). A copy of an imperial report is downloaded and saved.

After several minutes of perusal, Boldir looks up and turns to face the tiny tealblood girl flopped over one of the arms of the loungeplank, stubby fingers dancing across her palmhusk screen as she spams a Soldier Purrbeasts forum with pro-imperial memes. Adorable.

“(psst little meme girl)”

“im busy”

“(okay, ‘busy’. what was your castename again?)”

“Kasund”

“(mm, i thought so. carry on.)”

Boldir returns her attention to her husktop, and several more things are made to happen.

First, the contents of a heavily safeguarded folder, containing several videos and photographs—the majority of which are selfies—are unceremoniously deleted. The only common denominator in each of the photos is a figure who very much resembles the one asleep on the loungeplank.

Just before deleting the last video, the oliveblood pauses to consider it. In the thumbnail is a cerulean caste sign and the blueprints for some kind of table.

Boldir gives a little snort of derision before deleting the very last backup copy with a satisfying _click_.

Shortly after this, a dozen streetcams across Outglut rotating lazily back and forth in their cradles freeze, and simultaneously, twelve mini-viewports appear around the edges of the husktop screen.

Not too long after that, a freshly-ordered squadron of drones just a few miles away from the subgrub pauses in their steady approach from across the city. They have just received a report regarding a riot in a highblood district fifteen miles in the opposite direction.

There is no such riot, but it’ll be another fifteen miles before they reach that conclusion.

A good ten minutes later, a self-driving limousine making its way towards the tealblood block freezes in its tracks and abruptly swings into a side road. Popping in a wireless earpiece with a small mic, the oliveblood girl taps into the audio system just in time to hear a “_the fuck was that;_”

“(i’m commandeering your vehicle.)” she says into the mic, eliciting twin yelps of surprise from the two trolls in the vehicle. “(don’t worry, you’re headed to the same place. i'm just providing you with a less conspicuous route.)”

“_who are you and how the fuck did you hack my ride;”_

“(you’ll find out soon. i'm a friend of a friend.)”

_“(| oh, which one? |)”_

_“diemen there = literally only one person they could be talking about right now;”_

_“(| is it elwurd? everybody knows elwurd |)”_

_“no diemen it != elwurd;”_

_“(| ohhh, it’s your _matesprit_, isn’t it |)”_

_“wha—I—we != matesprits;”_

_“(| really? but they wear your sign and everything |)”_

_“diemen please shut up im literally begging you;”_

_“(| i’ll shut up if you let us stop for some Savory Bunned Delights on the way there |)”_

_“yeah id love to buddy except my vehicle has apparently been “commandeered” by some mysterious stranger who claims to know my matesp— _friend_;”_

“(nice catch.)”

“_shut up, mysterious stranger;”_

“(will do.)” chuckles Boldir, popping out the earpiece before the cerulean can reply. After double-checking the route she’d set into the limousine’s navigational center, she puts the husktop to sleep.

With an almost catlike yawn, the oliveblood girl laces her fingers together and stretches her arms above her head, a chorus of cracks and pops sounding from her spine and shoulders as she does so.

Wow, that’s a lot of cracking.

She turns her head sharply at the sound of the voice, automatically relaxing when she sees that the alien’s eyes are open.

You okay? You were looking kind of weirded out for a second there.

“(it’s nothing. i was just reminded of someone.)”

I remind you of someone?

“(no, you’re one of a kind.)” she grins, poking them in the stomach to elicit a giggle.

Hehe—oof, ow, ribs.

“(oh, sorry. i'd almost forgotten you were catapulted off a cliff a few hours ago.)”

It’s fine. I was in _way_ worse shape when I first crash-landed here, believe me.

Boldir goes very still, her eyes distant. She appears to be deep in thought, her thinkpan whirling with activity in response to something in her friend’s words.

Boldir?

No response.

Hey, Boldir, are you—

A hand raises up, hesitantly, to poke her nose.

Her focus returns, slowly, and she smiles at her friend once more, albeit a bit faintly. “(it’s nothing.)”

You can’t just keep _saying_ that.

“(and i won’t. not for much longer, at least.)” She reaches out to hold the alien’s hand in hers, squeezing lightly. “(i just need a little more time.)”

That last line seems to be directed more towards the world in general than towards her friend, but the alien relaxes, squeezing her hand in return.

Yeah, okay.

At this point, Tirona notices the alien is awake and immediately scoots over to show them her newest memetic assault on the Soldier Purrbeasts forum. The alien patiently nods and mhmms as the little troll boasts, clearly a veteran where memeagandic discourse is concerned. They don’t remove their hand from Boldir’s.

The oliveblood girl looks up just in time to see one of the tealbloods passing by, and beckons them over with her free hand.

“(psst entykk,)” she begins, without preamble, “(this place isn’t going to be safe much longer.)”

“figures” drawls the tealblood, her nonchalant tone offset by the grim determination in her hooded eyes. “knewwww it couldn’t be this easy. knowwww any safehouses?”

“(none big enough for everyone.)”

“mmmmhmmmm” hums the tealblood, brow furrowed in thought. A few seconds later, her eyes light up.

“hey, sore-gore, c’mmmmere.”

* * *

Your name is GALEKH XIGISI and you sure are enjoying a nice peaceful late evening in your very large and spacious home.

Not for very much longer, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god, this was supposed to be a "normal" chapter, but boldir smacked the narrative out of my hands about two words in.
> 
> thank you all so much for your support thus far. i can't even begin to describe the delight i feel at getting to see a notification about kudos or comments.


	18. Of Run-Ins and Ruses, Impromptu

Your name has been ______ SAPHYK for the last two hours and fourteen minutes.

And if you’re being quite honest with yourself, you’d have probably picked a better one if you’d known you were going to be stuck with it this long. As far as aliases go, it’s not the worst you’ve cooked up, but you’re getting kind of sick of hearing it, what with the memories it dredges up.

The alias you’ve given the drones is just one letter away from the castename of a girl you’d been flush for two sweeps ago, back when you’d lived in Goregash. Of course, that was _before_ you got ratted out by some narc and had been forced to hightail it before the drones got too hot on your trail, grabbing your stash and a bottle of hair dye and hopping on the next scuttlebus without so much as a backward glance.

But it’s totally fine. Shit happens, stuff goes wrong, and you move on. No big deal. Three cities later, you’re older, tougher, and more streetwise than you’ve ever been. Everybody knows you, everybody wants you, vying desperately for your time and your quadrants (and for the little bags of multicolored powder you carry in the lining of your jacket). All in all, you’ve got it pretty good.

And if you still lie awake some days, wondering if you at least should’ve left her a note… well, that’s nobody’s business but yours.

The heel of your boot scrapes the wall as you turn to pace to the other side of the holding cell for the umpteenth time. You’ve been on the inside of detention blocks before, but the one in Thrashthrust is particularly rank. It’s not the filthiest by far—that one goes to Bloodburg, no contest—but whatever ventilation system they have clearly isn’t in good shape. The air is thick and foul, swimming with stale odors that must’ve trapped between the stone walls of the block for sweeps without being filtered out. It’s the kind of smell you don’t get used to, even when you’ve been stuck in it for—let’s see, now—_two hours and nineteen minutes._

You resist the urge to loose a loud and melodramatic sigh—you really don’t want to inhale too much of this air—and slump onto the narrow stone bench built into the back wall of the holding cell. They took your jacket when they brought you in, and you’re sorely missing it now. Contrary to popular belief, being cold-blooded doesn’t necessarily make you more partial to lower temperatures. If anything, it just makes you yearn more sorely for warmth.

They’d hauled you in around twilight. You’d been on the edge of Outglut, dealing special stardust derivatives to a couple of excommunicated purples living under a bridge. You’d been surprised at how… _intact_ the trolls were, considering what excommunication from Clown Church typically entails; that aside, there were clearly in no fit shape to go out and get their own narcotics.

In the end, the caegars hadn’t been worth it. Drones swooped in to charge them with vagrancy and ended up nabbing you for drug possession. Better that then for dealing, you guess.

You pretty well-assured that you’re not going to walk out of this with any serious charges. You’re not so stupid as to carry too much of your stock on hand, _especially_ when it’s you who has to go out to meet the buyer and not the other way ‘round. Plus, they don’t even know your real castename, so any and all of the charges being filed right now won’t matter once you get out.

As far as your current situation stands, you’re basically in the clear. The only reason you’re still in this detentionblock is the fact that imperial bureaucracy is complete shit when it comes to dealing with anything more complex then “cull this” or “cull that”. (Most of the policing _is_ carried out by drones, after all.)

The purples had originally been placed in the holding cell with you, but they’d been picked up by Church representatives within the first hour.

(You don’t envy them.)

Which leaves you here, freezing your ass off in the a communal detentionblock in the Thrashthrust Municipal Disciplincineration Center, presumably waiting for a drone to spit out some meaningless paperwork and send you on your merry way.

The loud _THWOOM_ of a door slamming further down the hall startles you out of your brooding. _Thunk-thunk-thunk_ go the telltale footsteps of a drone; a few seconds later, one lumbers into view before the bright red plasma barrier at the mouth of the cell.

Fucking _finally_. You slide off the bench and start walking towards the barrier, only to be stopped by a blaring “HALT.” from the drone. “CEASE APPROACHING THE BARRIER, CITIZEN.”

The hell?

“so what’s the hoLdup?” you ask of the drone, trying and failing to keep the annoyance out of your voice.

“CONFIRM CASTENAME.”

Ah, crap. If they’re asking this again, the jig might be up on _that_ little ruse.

You weigh your options. If they already know the castename is fake, you’ll just be digging yourself a deeper hole. But if you use a _different_ backup castename, the inconsistency might be cause for the authorities to investigate you more closely, at which point you’ll lose your five different fake IDS in one fell swoop.

You’re pretty much screwed either way, so you opt to risk the integrity of one fake ID rather than the whole set. “saphyk.” you answer, crossing your arms in a pose you hope looks more nonchalant than it feels, as the reality of the situation is just that you’re feeling very cold and very nervous.

For several moments too long, the drone does absolutely nothing. Your bloodpusher thrums nervously in your chest as you watch it through the sparking red barrier. Then, the robot raises an arm and punches something in the panel on the wall next to the cell. A shrill beep rings out, and the plasma barrier covering the mouth of the cell fizzles out. The drone steps aside and beckons you through.

You step quickly outside the cell, following behind the drone as it _thunk-thunk-thunks_ its way down the hall of the Municipal Disciplincineration Center. When you reach the intersection that you know leads outside the facility, you can feel a bright, sparkling bubble of hope fill your chest. The sooner you’re out of this oppressive, rancid-smelling building, the better.

The bubble bursts when your drone escort makes an abrupt left at the intersection.

You follow, hesitantly, your ganderbulbs flicking to and fro to try and get an idea of where this drone is leading you. Every instinct you have is screaming at you to make a run for it; if you’re not being led out, chances are it’s taking you to be culled, or tortured, or who knows _what_ else; you can practically feel the adrenaline crackling through your pumptubes, telling you to _go go go go GO, go NOW._

Except that wouldn’t make sense, a more logical chunk of your thinkpan reasons. A couple satchets of drugs on a quasi-highblood should be no big deal. And even if they figured out that your castename was fake, _that_ usually just means being sat down and forced to re-do some of your citizen id paperwork, at which interval you usually just slap down another fake id.

Yeah, that’s probably just what’s going on here. More paperwork, more hassle, more waiting around bored. No big deal. You can take it.

Except the drone escort doesn’t lead you to an office, or a waiting room. It leads you towards a door marked “INQUISITIONBLOCK”.

You stop dead in the hall, but before you can make it further than two steps back, the drone’s got your upper arm pinched between two of its claws, pulling you towards the door. Shit! You struggle, fruitlessly, to pull your arm free. “what the heLL is this?” you snap. “you got me on possession, aLright? i came cLean. no need for _this_, just assign me to rehab or whatever and i'LL get my pan scrubbed whiLe i’m at it.”

The drone stills, thankfully, and looks down at you. You can see your face , taut with anger and worry, reflected back at you in the shiny panes of its helmet.

“CITIZEN SAPHYK. HAVE YOU BEEN INFORMED OF THE PUNISHMENTS ISSED FOR THE ILLEGITIMATE POSSESSION OF NARCOTICS.”

“yeah, yeah, rehab and feeLing bad about myseLf. i know the driLL.”

“THIS LIST IS INCOMPLETE.” The drone issues. “OFFENDERS ARE REQUIRED TO PERFORM A MINIMUM AMOUNT OF COMMUNITY SERVICE ON BEHALF OF THE EMPIRE.”

Oh. You’d forgotten about that, mostly because you never actually go to rehab or do any of the other things either, obviously.

“…okay. so what is this?” You wave your free hand at the door.

There’s a few clicks and whirrs from somewhere in the drone’s chest. Then, a thin horizontal slot slides open, and from it issues a piece of paper. With the hand it’s not using to restrain you, the drone plucks the printout from its chest and extends it to you. You take it.

As you look over the sheet, the drone continues: “YOUR INSTRUCTIONS: USE PSYCHIC PERSUASION TO INDUCE OBJECTIVITY IN DETAINEE. PROCEED TO ASK QUESTIONS PROVIDED. ALL AUDIO WILL BE RECORDED AND REPORTED TO HIGHER AUTHORITY.”

So that’s really it? Just make some troll tell the truth, ask some questions, and go on your merry way? That’s not so bad, actuall—

Then your ganderbulbs skim over the last three questions on the sheet, and your acid tract _lurches._

Oh.

Oh, _hell_ no.

Keeping your face as neutral as you can, you nod jerkily at the drone. It releases your arm and enters the code to open up the room. As soon as the door slides open, you quickly step inside, and as you survey the situation inside, it closes firmly behind you.

The room is actually smaller than legal dramas on TV would suggest, barely large enough to accommodate the table and the chairs on either side. The rest is to be expected—terrible lighting, windowless and rank, speckles of dried blood clinging to the surface of the table.

There seem to be no visible cameras, but the drone _had_ mentioned that the audio in this room is recorded, so you can at least be assured that nothing you say in here is safe. As for whether or not they can _see_ you, well…if things go according to plan, that shouldn’t matter.

Sat on the other side of the is a goldblood who looks like they just rolled out of the ‘coon, all messy hair and wrinkled loungewear accented with what you might say was a tasteful amount of neon if you cared much for neon at all. Their wrists are cuffed, predictably, with a length of chain keeping them secured to a loop on the table. When you enter, their head snaps up to look at you, revealing one acid-green eye. The other is obscured by a triangular patch.

Oddly enough, they look…bored? No, not bored—resigned. The goldblood practically exudes defeat, slouched limply in their chair, fingertips idly tracing meaningless shapes into the filthy surface of the table. Their gaze is flat and bleary as they look at you, at your sign, and when they speak, it’s in a rasp.

“you here to break my pan?”

You don’t answer, sliding into the seat opposite. Taking a single breath to steel yourself—at which point you have to suppress a gag, as the room reeks of stale blood—you activate your powers, reaching out to envelop the goldblood’s thinkpan in your psychic web. The goldblood stiffens when your mind first touches theirs, but does not resist; as your control settles securely over them and your sign appears as a glowing brand on their forehead, you see them relax, face falling slack and blank as you assume control of their body.

Okay. Down to business.

_<can you hear me?> _ you project, hesitantly, into their pan, keeping your psychic voice down so as not to overwhelm them.

A pause, and then, faintly, a _yeah_.

_<great. i need you to Listen reaLLy carefuLLy to what i'm about to teLL you.>_

_<aint got much of a choice but sure lmao>_

_<ok, so i’m not gonna interrogate you.>_

Because you’re controlling their physical reactions, the goldblood doesn’t visibly react, but your connection with their thinkpan means that you feel the thrum of confusion that jolts through them at your words.

_<yet,>_ you quickly clarify. <_i’m not going to interrogate you _yet_.>_

More confusion. <_wait then whatre you even doing here>_

_<community service buLLshit. tinhead toLd me to ask you some questions.>_

_<…so why arent you doing that yet didja forget how to psychic or what>_

_<what? no. if that was the case i wouLdn’t be able to taLk to you like this in the first place.>_

_<oh right lmao so whats holding you up>_

_<gimme a sec here, i’m trying to figure out a way to _not_ interrogate you but aLso _not_ get me— get _us_ cuLLed.>_

_<yo what? whats even goin on here man im so confused>_

_<no duh it’s confusing. in any other situation i wouLn’t even bother trying to risk puLLing something Like this, but—>_

_<oh well _thats_ reassuring lmao>_

_<hey, did you _LiteraLLy_ just forget i'm trying to heLp you out here??>_

_<yeah no i legit have no idea who you are or what youre doing dude>_

_<if you don’t shut up and Let me expLain, whoever’s surveiLing this room is gonna start wondering why i haven’t made you taLk yet, and then we’re _both_ getting cuLLed.>_

You feel, rather than see, the goldblood shrug. _<i mean its all the same to me lmao why would i help you with some weird plan just ask me the stuff and get it over with>_

_<beLieve me, it’s not that simpLe.>_

_<uh huh>_

_<here’s the sitch, patches. if i ask you this stuff_— here, you lightly tap the printout on the table before you— _i’LL be putting someone i care about in danger. >_

_<im flattered lmao>_

_<it’s obviousLy not you. >_

_<obvs im just messin, aint no way this is about me lmao>_

…ouch? You decide to skirt past that one, but mentally file it away for later.

_<anyway, the Last questions on here ask about some kind of aLien you interacted with.>_

Again, no physical reaction due to your hold on them, but you feel a burst of genuine emotion light up in the troll’s thinkpan, a mixture of surprise, concern, and panic all at once.

_<aw shit they found them? _fuck_>_

_<based on the questions, i don’t think they captured them yet, but they sure as heLL know about them.>_

_<so whatre you gonna do? panbreak me until i spill about them?>_

The goldblood’s psychic voice has changed radically, the flat monotone now suffused with terror and anger. You know, immediately, that this alien _means_ something to them, and therefore that you’re going to need to do whatever it takes to get _both_ of you out of this place, for your friend’s sake.

_<no, because i'm their friend.>_

The relief you feel from the goldblood over the psychic link is immediate, but all too quickly, paranoia starts flooding back in.

_<how am i supposed to know youre tellin the truth>_

_<you’re just gonna have to trust m— no, wait, that sounds shady as heLL, gimme a sec.>_

You focus on projecting a memory over the psychic link. It’s of one of your hangouts with the alien at your favorite café; you’d guess it was roughly two wipes ago. You can see them clearly in your mind’s eye, bent double laughing at some stupid joke you’d stolen from Chittr, then accidentally knocking their mug off the table when they’d straightened back up.

You can see it now, the alien’s eyes going wide with realization just the sharp _crack _of ceramic on tile reaches your ears. They stare at the broken mug for a single, frozen moment, before their entire face flushes pink with embarrassment. You watch as they scramble off their seat to hurriedly gather the shards, disregarding the sharp edges and using the skirt of their silky lilac dress as a makeshift basket. They look up at you, a sheepish smile already tugging at their lips, and open their mouth to say—

<_yeah wow ok point proven, that was one vivid-ass memory my dude>_

You snap out of it, hurriedly retracting the memory, as though you hadn’t just gotten hopelessly lost in it. There’s something about that alien, the way they _care_ so damn much about what you think of them, that tugs more than a little at the pity threads of your pumpbiscuit.

_<oh big mood>_ the goldblood says somberly, making you realize, with some mortification, that you’d accidentally projected those last few thoughts across the link.

_<okay. so. here’s what we’re going to do. i'm going to keep this psychic Linkage so that, to the cameras, it Looks Like i’m using my powers.>_

_<yeah and then what>_

_<and then nothing, i'LL just ask you the questions but i won’t do anything to your pan, so you can Lie as much as you want; i'LL stiLL be controLLing your body but that’s it>_

_<controlling my body? kinky lmao>_

_<shut up, you _know _it’s just to keep my sign on your head>_

_<yeah i know fam. lets just get this done real quick weve just been in silence for like ten minutes>_

With that, you shift your pan slightly off of the psychic link, while still maintaining the connection, just so you can look down at the printout and start reading off questions. “now beginning interrogation.” you state, for the benefit of whoever’s surveilling this, before beginning with the questions.

“fuLL name?” _<just try and sound super panbroken, ok?>_

_<easy peasy acidberry squeezy my dude, they havent given me anything to drink since i got here lmao> _“cirava hermod”

“caste?”

“gold”

The next few questions are all basic stuff—age, address, kill count (estimated), profession, etc, etc. Besides the occasional snark from Cirava over the psychic link, it all goes smoothly.

Then you reach the last few questions.

“have you been made aware of the presence of a hostile extraterrestrial invader within close proximity to your place of residence and/or business within the last three perigees?” <_do NOT just say no, trust me, it’LL mess up the next couple questions, just say something super neutraL>_

“…I have been made… somewhat aware” replies Cirava, slowly. <_bro wtf_>

“did you encounter an extraterrestriaL in person, and subsequentLy take muLtipLe photographs of and/or with the extraterrestriaL?” _<see what i mean?>_

_<ah shit they must have found some of my selfies, aint no denying that one> _“…yes.”

“describe the nature of your contact with the extraterrestriaL.” _<here’s where you gotta Lie Like you mean it.>_

And lie they most certainly do. Without breaking their monotone, Cirava describes a scenario in which they met the alien at a rave— “my place of business, among others”— and photographed them under the pretense that they were a lusus, based on their “un-troll-like characteristics and monochromaticity”. They justify this wackjob hypothesis by noting that the lighting at this rave, as it is at so many raves, was _extraordinarily_ poor.

All in all, it sounds exactly like a thing that could happen to a slow-witted lowblood working in the entertainment business, and you feel a sense of triumph as you tuck the printout away and state “end of questions provided” to the invisible listeners.

Not two seconds later, a loud crackling noise fills the inquisitionblock. Over the speakers, the bored-sounding voice of a troll government official bluntly announces: “Thank you, citizen, you have performed sufficiently. The civic duty you have performed will satisfy your community service requirements.”

You exchange an excited look with Cirava. You’re almost home free.

“Now, if you would kindly leave the room and allow the drones to dispose of the pan-broken troll, we would very much like to sort out your rather…_inconsistent_ records before the night is done.”

With that, the speaker shuts off with a _click_.

“FUCK!” both you and Cirava exclaim at the same time.

“can you use your psionics to bust the cuffs??” you ask, without thinking.

They glare at you. “seriously?”

“oh, right.” reaching down, you pull out the set of lockpicks you keep tucked into your left boot and get to work on the cuffs. At this point, it doesn’t really matter if anyone sees or hears you. You’re both screwed.

A few minutes later finds the two of you sprinting out of the Disciplincineration Center and into the warm night air. With the moons at their peak in the sky, you know that straight-up running out in the open to get away from the imperial complex and back into the city would be perilous. That leaves hiding.

Grabbing the goldblood’s wrist—they clearly do not get enough exercise—you yank the two of you behind a parked tank just as a drone goes by. Once it’s gone, you start moving again, intent on finding a safe place to lay low until a safe escape route presents itself.

The TMDC is just one of several buildings that make up a larger imperial complex on the edge of the city of Thrashthrust, including several storage warehouses for drone and ship maintenance as well as the military training barracks. As you make your way through the alleys that snake between the various buildings of the complex, your eyes dart from doorway to doorway, searching for some little-used shed or storage facility the two of you can hunker down in.

In the end, it’s Cirava who spots it; ochre-faced and wheezing, they point at the gaping maw of a hangar right on the edge of the complex, dark and seemingly not in use. The two of you slip inside just as the wail of an alarm begins somewhere in the distance.

You blink rapidly to adjust to the dim lighting, as none of the bulbs are turned on, and so the only light source in the cavernous building comes from the moonlight streaming in through the door. Once your eyes adjust, you see that the hangar seems to have been designated for military vehicles in need of repair, the closest to you being a heavily scorched tank with most of its wheels missing. The wrecked machines loom strangely in the half-dark, appearing almost monstrous. With the adrenaline of your near-culling experience still surging through you, you nearly jump when Cirava speaks aloud.

“wild” they comment, wandering closer to what looks to be a deactivated drone, only it’s about three times larger than any drone you’ve ever seen planetside. Before you can do or say anything, Cirava slowly reaches out and pokes it in the kneecap.

Nothing happens. In a rare moment of clemency, the universe seems to tolerate this stupidity. You exhale in relief, leaning back against the side of an armored truck.

The minute your back comes into contact with the supposedly-wrecked vehicle, a loud, shrill _BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP _starts up.

“shit!” you fumble with the handle of the armored vehicle—something on the dashboard will disable the alarm, surely— but the door is either locked or stuck, because it won’t budge. You scrabble for your lockpicks, only to find nothing; you must have not tucked them away securely enough after using them, and so they probably slipped out of your boot during the run.

Cirava runs to your side and tries to help you get the door open, but it won’t budge.

And then, after what feels like eternity but was probably roughly a minute, the beeping stops.

You still, exchanging a wide-eyed look with your fellow escapee. Maybe no one heard that? The hangar is empty, after all, and—

“~ Why, hello there! ~”

Apparently not.

“~ I’m positively tickled with delight to have some company. I didn’t think anyone gave two hoots about this place! I don’t suppose you happen to have—~”

You reach out and snag the interloper’s unsuspecting thinkpan with your psychics, freezing him in place. You don’t train your powers often, so using full-body mind control so soon after the last one is a bit of a strain; even as you activate it, you can feel the beginnings of a pan-ache at your temples.

“yo check this guy out” you hear Cirava say, and you look up to see what they’re talking about. They seem to be looking over the interloper, who you can now see is a tall, lanky bronzeblood.

The goldblood points at the bronze’s jacket. “dudes a pilot-in-training” they note. “maybe he could pilot us off this rock lmao, aint like we can _live_ here anymore”

“sure you can.” you answer, more breezily than you feel. “get a fake castename, some hair dye, and you’re good to go.” _And the willingness to give up on ever having a home or a person to call your own_, a nasty little voice at the back of your thinkpan spitefully notes.

Cirava shrugs. “idk about that my dude but in any case we need a ride out” Even as they say it, you can hear the distant sirens getting progressively louder.

You quickly turn your attention to the bronze. “do you have a ship?” you demand.

“~Yes.~” He answers, stiffly. “~I’m working to repair an old space shuttle.~”

“can it _fLy_?”

“~………~”

Cirava is the one to break the too-long silence that ensues. “you got any snacks on that ship or what”

* * *

Your name is ZEBEDE TONGVA and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die miserable and alone.

But anyways, that’s not your biggest concern right now.

What _is_ your concern is the shuttlepod that’s just crashed in the middle of your bee farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so i remembered elwurd is canonically a dealer
> 
> also yes, Unnamed Bureaucrat Troll's quirk is just underlined text and that's IT


	19. Of Reunions and Recollections, Marred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can neither confirm nor deny that Gotye’s Somebody That I Used To Know was on loop in the background during a portion of the writing process for this chapter

Your name is FOZZER VELYES and you are burning alive.

It starts with a starburst of razor-sharp pinpricks that spark just behind your bulbsockets. It’s small—no worse than the symptoms of an average moonstroke— but it’s sudden, enough to elicit an instinctive wince. Shaking your head, you blink rapidly to dispel the bright splotches of light swimming across your line of vision.

Rather than fading, the splotches only smear, clouding your vision in a white-hot haze that thickens with each frantic blink. You automatically slam your ganderbulbs shut against the glare, but it’s no use; somehow, you can still _see_ it, thrumming acid green on the inside of your bulblids.

Before you can form even a single thought, the light takes you, and then it takes you to pieces.

Your tightly shut bulblids offer no resistance to it. It writhes and claws its way between your lashes to rake thin, burning lines across the back of your bulbsockets; from the searing fissures, fire spurts in great gouts and sheets to engulf the whole of your thinkpan, the flames leaping high to lick the walls of your skull.

You’ve never been burned—at least, not _too_ badly— but you don’t think it feels anything at all like the pain that then overtakes you. The furthest a fire can reach is the bone. But this— this _radiance_— seems to reach much, much further, further than you thought pain could ever reach, if it is indeed pain that you’re feeling.

You’ve had pan-aches before, working such long hours under the moons. _This_ is nothing like that.

_This_ is pain with intent, pain with malice, pain with long fingers and untrimmed claws that gouge so deeply into your thinkpan that you can almost hear it ripping in two.

It goes on for forever. You don’t even feel as though you have a body, anymore; all you know of all you are is being adrift in a sea of roiling flame that flays the very heart of you, then welds it back together with acute precision and care. Each bleeding seam is sewn anew, each fallen cog painstakingly replaced, with brand-new parts that gleam and glitter in the firelight.

You do not recognize any one of them.

Through howling flame and blazing light you hear something— a whisper, like a trickle of pure, cool spring water. Instinctively, you strain the scattered shreds of your being to hear its words—

“_—fozz! *|”_

You wake up.

You find yourself standing thigh-deep in a shallow grave, every stitch of clothing soaked through with cold sweat.

It appears to be around midnight, but you’re not sure; the moons are obscured from view by the three trolls stood on the lip of the grave, all of them looking down at you.

“—are you okay *” <strike>your dear old friend</strike> the oliveblood is saying, concern wrinkling her brow. “* you didn't respond * or stop digging * even when I said your name like three times *|”

“_fouur_ times” sniffs the <strike>indigoblood</strike> highblood<strike>, disrespectfully. </strike>“are youu _suure _this ruustblood’s really the best choice for this, goezee?”

<strike>Your friend </strike>The oliveblood <strike>rightfully</strike> ignores this, instead dropping into a crouch on the edge of the pit so she can look you in the eye. “how’re you feeling? * did something –*”

Her sharp, discerning ganderbulbs dart over you as she speaks. Her gaze drops to a point near your waist, and she inhales sharply. “holy shit fozz * your _hands_ *|”

You look down and are surprised to find that you appear to be holding your shovel. This, in itself, is not surprising.

What _is _surprising is the fact that you hadn’t even realized you were holding it until now. As you look down, you see the white flash of bone where grey skin is pulled taut over your knuckles from how tight your grip on the handle is.

You realize, belatedly, that you aren’t wearing your work gloves. The wood of the handle is stained dark beneath your palms, and a steady drip-drip-dripping sound reaches your auricular sponges.

As you stare numbly down at your shovel, you see another<strike>, familiar</strike> hand, with prongless gloves and uneven claws, come to rest gingerly atop one of your own. Your look up to see that <strike>your comrade</strike> the oliveblood girl is now stood directly in front of you.

Slowly, inexorably, she peels one hand and then the other from the handle of your shovel<strike>, her cool prongs a balm on your fevered skin</strike>. The shovel hits the ground with a dull _thud_.

When it falls, the other troll doesn’t break the contact between you, cradling one of your bloodied hands cautiously between her own. “ok, it’s not too bad * some ruptured blisters, looks like *|” she concludes. “what even happened here * how long have you been working? *|”

You are suddenly aware of just how utterly _exhausted_ you are. Every muscle in your back, shoulders and arms feels like it’s been worn down to string, and although you’re no longer in soul-rending agony, your thinkpan still aches dully between your aural receptors.

But of course, you cannot afford to show such weakness to another <strike>lowblood comrade-in-arms</strike> subject of the glorious Empire! _Especially_ not one <strike>you value so dearly</strike> whose blood caste is respectably higher than yours.

“I’m_perfectly_fine.” you assure her, willing a smile onto your face. “Just_a_little_nightmare,_that’s_all!! It’s_nothing_you_need_concern_yourself_with. A_few_swigs_of_hydration_fluid,_and_I’ll_be_right_back_on_the_job.”

Instead of being comforted, the other troll just looks even more disconcerted by your response. “fozz, what are you even saying * ” she snaps, “this isn’t about _work _* this is about the fact that you were * oh i don’t know * acting all off and zoned out just now? *|”

Oh, no, you’ve gone and angered her. Is she <strike>truly that concerned about your well-being</strike> doubtful of your ability to perform your imperial duties?

Perhaps sensing your distress, something in her expression softens, just a little bit. “i know it’s been a long time * but still * ” here she hesitates, one prongtip tracing absently over the back of your hand, which she’s still holding onto.

“you can’t just overwork yourself like this * i know it means a lot to you * but it’s really bad for you * especially when you’re out here all alone *|” Polypa finishes. “i mean * seriously * is it actually just you out here? * after all this time? *|”

“Unfortunately,_those_who_see_and_appreciate_the_profession_of_corpsefarming_for_its_true_worth_are_far_and_few_between.” you state, glad to have returned to familiar territory. “Despite_the_revulsion_that_the_ignorant_troll_populace_exhibits_towards_it,_and_the_wider_public_support_for_cremation_as_a_common_corpse_disposal_practise, _the_benefits_of_corpsefarming_outweigh_its_requirements_for_manual_labor_and_admitted_fetidity!! After_all,_in_addition_to_providing_nutrients_to_replenish_the_planet's_precious_soil,_it_provides_a_means_through_which_those_of_lowly_blood_status,_like_yours_truly,_can_contribute_to_the_glorious_regime_and_earn_some_small_amount_of_income_through_which_they_can_continue_to_perpetuate_their_existences,_or_at_least_for_some_short_amount_of_time_until_they_inevitably—"

“wait wait wait wait *|” the other troll holds up a hand to stop you, and you do so <strike>at seeing the complete indredulity on her face</strike> out of due respect for her higher blood status.

““of lowly blood status”? *|” she repeats, slowly. “isn’t that kind of * you know * … * not politically correct * at least when it comes to your politics? *|”

<strike>Oh. She’s completely right.</strike> What? That’s completely incorrect.

“I’m_afraid_you’re_mistaken,_fellow_subject!” you cheerily affirm, proudly jabbing a thumb at your chest as you continue, “I_believe_it_is_important_for_all_trolls_to_recognize_their_true_places_in_society,_as_denying_that_place_is_just_as_absurd_as,_oh,_for_instance,_denying_the_very_blood_in_one’s_pumptubes!! The_first_true_step_to_self-realization_and_lifelong_contentment_lies_in_the_acceptance_of_that_simple_fact.”

The oliveblood is full-on staring at you now, her mouth slightly agape; she actually takes a step back, perhaps wowed by your impassioned display of patriotism. As she does so, your hand slips from her slackened grip and falls back to your side. You’re <strike>a little saddened by the loss of contact</strike> quite relieved by this; the prolonged contact was beginning to verge on impropriety, for two unquadranted trolls, at least.

“ok * ok, so * you’re just— * i didn’t think you—” The other troll takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a long whoosh. “ok, so i admit that i don’t really _get_ politics stuff half the time * yours especially * but i could have _sworn_ you said something casteist just now *|”

She seems almost _shocked _by this notion, to your own bewilderment.

“I’m_not_sure_what_you_mean_by_that,_fellow_subject. Is_not_the_caste_system_the_natural_order_of_things?”

“wha— * bu— *” she sputters, “you _hate_ the caste system! *|”

It’s your turn to be taken aback. Does she… does she not think of you as a loyal subject?

But how could that be? In all the sweeps you’ve known her, you’ve _always_ been immovably royalist. Hell, you were set on your politics the minute you _hatched_. What could you have done wrong so as to leave any other kind of impression? Is it possibly that you’re doing it right now?

You find yourself growing defensive, arms automatically crossing over your chest and eyes narrowing as you maintain eye contact with <strike>your comrade</strike> your fellow citizen. You’re determined to amend this clear and obvious misunderstanding.

“Are_you_accusing_me_of_treason?”

“yes? * no? * you’re just acting really different right now * and you’re not even acknowledging it *|”

“Different_from_what,_exactly?”

“different from _you!_ *|” she bursts out. “fozz, i just— * i can’t even—”

She lets out a frustrated groan, digging her claws into her scalp, prongs curling into her tangled mane. It’s gotten even longer and wilder in the wipes and perigees since you last saw her. <strike>You think it suits her well.</strike>

“there’s something off * i can’t quite put my prong on it * but it’s definitely there *” she starts, slowly, lowering her hands and looking at you warily. “politics stuff aside * you haven’t even called me by _name_ yet * let alone that stupid nickname *|”

Nickname? Why would you ever do something like that? Even if she _is_ your <strike>pity</strike>friend, she’s still two full hemocastes above you, and a proper social distance must be maintained to preserve the sanctity of the caste system. Her calling _you_ by a nickname is barely appropriate as-is, but you’re not sure it’s your place to correct her.

You open your mouth to question whether she’s remembering incorrectly, but you hesitate. Something about the way she’s looking at you right now jerks painfully at your pumpbiscuit and cuts the words off halfway to your lips.

You don’t really understand what it is she’s expecting of you, nor what it is she thinks you _are_ to each other, but you know that saying what you’d been about to say is _going_ to hurt her. Somehow, for some reason you can’t quite grasp, the very thought of that is unbearable.

But you can’t lie to her, either, so you say nothing. The space between you seems to fill with a strained, tense silence.

A voice from just a few feet above you abruptly reminds you that you two are not the only two trolls in the corpsefield.

“as _amuusing_ as it’s been to watch two pitystruck idiots arguue in a muuddy hole in the grouund for the last _five minuutes_, we _do_ have other places to be, goezee.” sneers the <strike>indigoblood</strike> smaller of the two honorable highbloods. “so, _can_ he get rid of these corpses before daybreak, or _what_?”

As she speaks, she gestures pointedly to a very large and very lumpy sack slung over the subjuggulator’s shoulder.

Said subjuggulator, you now realize, is staring intently at you, vermillion ganderbulbs half-lidded, head tilted in apparent curiosity. When she catches you looking back, she doesn’t look away; she only smiles, slowly, sending an involuntary shiver skittering down your posture pole.

Come to think of it, you’ve never _had_ a purpleblood come by the Happy Absence Pit Park before— or at least, not a living one. Perhaps you should bow? Is it too late for that?

After what feels like ages, the other troll breaks the eye contact and turns to her small companion, who is arguing with the assassin.

“could you honestly just _not_ do this right now? *|” the oliveblood troll is saying to the <strike>indigo</strike> younger highblood.

“i couuld say the same of youu!” harrumphs the smaller troll. “_i_ have uunfinished projects that need working on, buut here we are, wasting time at _this_ duump” here she waves her arms around up so as to indicate the Happy Absence Pit Park in its entirety, “when we _couuld_ have juust uused a puublic incinerator.”

“where everyone could see them * nice plan you got there *|”

“they’re juust _mercenaries_. no one’s going to bat a buulblash if they tuurn up dead.”

“except * they’ll be turning up dead all at once * and any troll who spots us with the bodies is going to know it was us *|” deadpans the assassin. “you can’t just kill four mercs out of the blue and expect nothing to happen * they’ll have partners * and quadrantmates * and allies * not to mention our collective reputations will be in the gutter *|”

“and how exactly is airpan over there suupposed to fix that?”

“he’s a corpsefarmer * he can bury them *|” replies your <strike>pity</strike>friend, before turning to look at you sheepishly. “which * yeah * forgot to mention that * do you think you could do that? * i'll owe you *|”

“You_don’t_owe_me_anything” you tell her, honestly. “It_would_be_my_pleasure_to_provide_my_services_to_another_loyal_subject,_especially_one_in_the_company_of_such_esteemed_highbloods.”

Her face twists into something complicated. “yeah * okay * thanks *|” She looks like wants to add something else, but snaps her mouth shut at the last second, fangs clicking as she does so.

Just as you move to exit the shallow grave, she darts forward and grabs your hand again; you can’t suppress a wince when she accidentally comes into contact with the broken blisters, and she quickly changes her grip so that she’s gripping onto your wrist instead.

“listen *|” she hisses intently, eyes fixed on your face. She’s close, too close. “i still don’t know what’s happened with you in the last couple perigees * and that’s my fault * but i'm going to make it up to you * okay? *|”

She leans in closer, until her forehead is pressed against yours.

“you and me need to have a talk * about you * about this * about us * about everything * but for right now * there’s another crisis that needs solving *|”

Behind all that gruffness, she sounds almost…apologetic, as though you’re actually someone worth her time. “but as soon as that’s over *” she resumes, “i promise * i'm dragging your workaholic ass out of here * and we’re going to catch up for real *|”

This close, you can see the flecks of green in her irises. <strike>It’s mesmerizing.</strike>

“ok *|?” she prompts, worry bleeding into her voice, and you realize you’ve just been staring into her eyes without saying anything.

“Ok.”

She pulls back a little, though she doesn’t let go of your wrist. You can’t quite decipher the look on her face, but it’s more relaxed, now. You offer her a smile, and <strike>you are delighted when</strike> she returns it.

After that conversation, you hop on out of the shallow pit to examine the newest additions to your corpsefield: four trolls, all in slightly different states of mangling; the cleanest is the one with a slit throat, and the messiest is the one in three different pieces.

They also look like they’ve been bled out, but that’s really none of your business. Your only concern is finding a plot of ground to accommodate them.

Luckily, you manage to find a big enough spot near the northeast corner of the Happy Absence Pit Park. After allowing Polypa to bandage your hands, wrapping the sensitive areas in sturdy white bindings similar to those she has around her forearms, you get to work. You essentially slip into autopilot, letting muscle memory and experience guide your movements as you set about wrapping each body in a tarp and then starting on the graves themselves.

The three trolls responsible for these new additions linger. As you work, whistling the imperial anthem to yourself to keep rhythm, you can hear Polypa and the <strike>indigoblood</strike> smaller highblood girl bickering over something in the background.

You don’t hear the subjuggulator, though, and when you pop your head up over the top of the first completed grave, you find her stood right on the edge, looking down at you.

When you make eye contact this time, she actually speaks.

“Tell me now, liTTle corpsedigger,” she rumbles with surprising gentleness, “what do you know of The mirThful messiahs?”

You tell the truth, of course. “I_wouldn’t_say_I’m_much_of_a_religious_type.” you admit, carefully hauling yourself over the edge of the pit and standing to face her more evenly. “Of_course,_I_respect_the_Clown_Church_as_a_cornerstone_of_our_planet’s_cultural_traditions,_but_as_a_mere_rustblood,_I_haven’t_engaged_much_with_it_personally.”

“hmm.” Her painted brow raise slightly, and she looks faintly amused by your response. “don’T suppose you believe in miracles Then, do ya?”

You shrug, and she chuckles lowly, a sound like distant thunder, never once taking her eyes off your face. The more you look at her, the more you wonder whether or not she’s actually looking _at_ your face; now that you’re this close, it seems more like she’s looking _past_ it, at something just beyond. At what, you’re not sure.

“yeah, ThoughT so.” she mutters. “Tell ya whaT, corpsefarmer. if ThaT funny liTTle pan a’ yours” she gives your head a friendly pat that makes your aural receptors ring, “ever sTarTs up and Trippin’ the lighT motherfuckin’ fanTasTic while you’re ouT here, you come and Tell me all abouT iT.”

Her grin widens, impossibly, showing off more teeth than you’ve ever seen on a troll. “i’d like To see someThin’ like ThaT for my fuckin’ self.”

You have literally no clue as to what she means, so you agree, and she asks if you have a palmhusk.

You do, and when you open it up to enter her contact details, a flashing notification on the public news feed app catches your eye.

You open it, and are immediately shocked to see a _very _familiar face.

“someThin’ wrong?” drawls the <strike>purpleblood</strike> highblood, watching you closely. You think you can see Polypa approaching the two of you out of the corner of your eye, but all you can do is gawk at the culling alert.

Your _alien friend_? That small, hapless little cheese-person? A _spy _for a _hostile extraterrestrial invasion force_? 

Why, that little faux-imperialist, anti-royalist backstabber! They played you like a fiddle, didn’t they?

“fozz, what’re you— * oh * you know them too? *|” asks Polypa, pointing at your husk screen.

“Unfortunately!!” you fume, positively shaking with anger. “To_think_I’d_thought_them_an_ally_and_fellow_pro-imperial_supporter!! I_was_a__fool__to_think_that_an_extraterrestrial_could_ever_come_to_truly_appreciate_our_noble_culture.”

Polypa visibly bristles, body tensing. “hey * watch yourself * that’s my moirail you’re talking about *|”

“Your__moirail_?” You reply, sincerely flabbergasted. “How_could _a_life-form_that_clearly_can’t_even_comprehend_the_sheer__perfection__that_is_Her_Most_High_Imperial_Condescension’s_glorious_empire_ever_hope_to_understand__quadrants_?”

“they’re _not_ trying to topple the empire! *|” she shouts back, hands balled into fists. “it’s all just a _mistake_ * they didn’t do anything * the bureaucarvers must have just jumped to conclusions or something *|” She looks furious, moreso at the situation than at anyone in particular.

You’re about to retort, to tell her that the imperial bureaucarvers could never make such a mistake, but the words freeze in your mealtunnel when you see the angry tears at the corners of her ganderbulbs. <strike>Your pumpbiscuit instinctively clenches in pity at the sight.</strike>

“i don’t know what the hell’s going on with you right now * but i really don’t have time to deal with this *|” Polypa draws an arm across her face to wipe away the tears, leaving two faint olive spots on her bandage-wrapped forearm. “do what you want * i'm going to go help them * no matter what it takes *|”

You watch her go, stalking purposefully towards the edge of the corpsefield, in the direction you know the main road to be. After a minute or so, the highbloods follow her, leaving you with only the tarp-wrapped corpses for company.

You remain stood there long after Polypa is out of sight.

You wonder, faintly, if there ever _was_ a nickname you had for her.

But when you close your eyes and try to recall it, the memory crumbles to ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things:  
\- hey, isn’t it weird that on Alternia, a daymare is literally just called a nightmare?  
\- On a more relevant note, this fic will not update next weekend due to finals, but *will* (hopefully) update more frequently in the weeks following finals because winter break babey!


	20. Interlude (?) 3: Of Conjunction and Conjecture, Cellular

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt chapter title: The Author Recalls, Belatedly, The Existence of Mobile Phones

pwnageGenerator [PG] began trolling snakeBytes [SB] at 09:08HRS

PG: >hey scrublord  
PG: >needlenubs  
PG: >junkpan  
PG: >soporsniffer  
PG: >knobbyhorns  
PG: >freakface  
PG: >a/d/a/l/o/v  
PG: >pick up your husk

pwnageGenerator [PG] ceased trolling snakeBytes [SB]

snakeBytes [SB] began trolling pwnageGenerator [PG] at 10:11HRS

SB: how does “adalov” even count as an insult;  
PG: >its an insult because its your name lololol  
PG: >tfw you own yourself  
SB: no u;  
PG: >you cant “no u” a personal insult dweeb  
SB: i do what i want;  
SB: try me;  
PG: >i just might  
PG: >i mean  
PG: >uh  
PG: >so whats going on rn  
SB: nothing much;  
SB: just got fucking kidnapped omw to help a flushcrush;  
SB: carnapped? limo-napped?;  
SB: whatever;  
SB: it = nbd;  
PG: >whoa what  
PG: >WHAT  
PG: >hold on  
PG: >how did THAT happen  
SB: beats me;  
SB: one minute im cruising on auto;  
SB: five minutes on the eta;  
SB: next thing i know; im on a 20 minute detour;  
PG: >no not that thing  
PG: >the other thing  
SB: what;  
SB: what other thing;  
PG: >you know  
PG: >the thing  
PG: >the other thing you just said  
PG: >the flushcrush thing  
PG: >the thing youve been denying for 30 million sweeps  
PG: >that thing  
SB: oh that thing;  
PG: >yes that thing  
SB: i mean;  
SB: i’m still not too sure about it;  
SB: like;  
SB: i'm pretty sure those = the feelings i'm having;  
SB: like maybe 58% sure;  
SB: but it = hard to say for sure;  
SB: margins of error and all that;  
SB: and i dont really have any real precedents to which i can compare this whatever-it-is;  
SB: but i'm hoping ill be able to figure it out once i see them;  
SB: sometime soon i hope;  
SB: probably;  
PG: >what even happened in the last hour lololol  
SB: a lot of things;  
SB: oh diemen says hi btw;  
PG: >oh its weenie boy  
PG: >tell weenie boy i said hi  
SB: im not calling him that;  
PG: >wym  
PG: >its what me and fol call him literally all the time  
SB: why would you do that;  
PG: >bc its funny  
SB: i mean sure;  
SB: objectively speaking it = funny;  
SB: but consider this;  
SB: its diemen;  
PG: >yeah no duh  
PG: >what you think i like  
PG: >call him weenie boy to make him upset or smth??  
SB: maybe?;  
PG: >LOLOLOLOLOL NOPE  
PG: >owned again moron  
PG: >its funny bc he actually takes it as a compliment  
SB: oh ok;  
SB: that actually makes a lot of sense lol;  
PG: >hes so much of a noob that its almost impressive  
PG: >a truly ascended noob lololol  
PG: >fol once called him that once  
PG: >and he said thank you  
SB: lmao nice one;  
SB: so anyways;  
SB: what did you want to talk about;  
PG: >ok so  
PG: >remember when you messaged me earlier  
PG: >about deleting the aliens file out of the culling db  
SB: yeah i remember;  
SB: thought we already talked about that;  
SB: your husk blew up;  
PG: >yeah  
PG: >that happened  
PG: >but heres the thing  
PG: >got one of my spare husks and tried again  
PG: >something weird happened  
SB: what kind of weird?;  
PG: >well first of all it blew up again  
SB: oh;  
SB: that = ok dude;  
SB: p sure it = too late for that anyways; no big deal;  
PG: >shut up and let me finish  
PG: >got the husk  
PG: >got in the database easy  
PG: >dodged the defenses like a boss  
PG: >found the file  
PG: >started really getting my prongs into it  
PG: >husk ate shit  
PG: >threw up a pukey neon green lightshow and fucked off  
SB: same as last time?;  
PG: >exact same thing as last time  
PG: >but heres the thing  
PG: >theres no self destruct trigger in the db defenses  
PG: >scanned the hell out of them this time  
PG: >twice  
PG: >nothing  
SB: hm;  
SB: maybe it = in the file itself;  
SB: like it triggers when you try to delete it;  
PG: >yeah except it did that before i could even start the deletion process  
PG: >and believe me  
PG: >i know everything about deleting files from here  
PG: >ive deleted fols file enough times to know how it goes lololol  
PG: >idiot fucking drones keep adding her back in whenever they get a scan on her  
SB: yeah that = why i asked you to do this in the first place;  
SB: youve basically perfected the technique;  
PG: >8D  
SB: thats why it = weird that this keeps happening;  
SB: maybe someone put a bug in your husks?;  
PG: >you mean my multiple husks  
PG: >my multiple husks i hide in the literal trashpiles  
PG: >those husks  
SB: yeah okay i get it;  
SB: maybe ill give it a try;  
SB: once im not in a moving vehicle that is;  
PG: >yeah sure you do that  
PG: >lmk if you need help  
PG: >you will lololol  
SB: sure;  
SB: thanks btw;  
PG: >for what lol  
SB: for just being around i guess;  
SB: everythings gotten so dark and twisted and serious all of a sudden;  
SB: been a hell of a thematic shift in the narrative;  
SB: so to speak;  
SB: it = good to know i can at least rely on you to be the same shitty trash gremlin as always;  
PG: >hey fuck you  
SB: no u;  
PG: >YOU CANT USE THAT TWICE  
SB: >then perish;  
PG: >NO U  
SB: WHAT;  
PG: >GOTTEM  
SB: great well now both of us have lost “no u” privileges;  
SB: that = called a stalemate laserpan;  
PG: >guess so lololol  
PG: >oh rite guess what  
SB: what;  
PG: >guess  
SB: no;  
PG: >fol has a gf now  
SB: no fucking way;  
PG: >yes fucking way  
SB: good for her;  
SB: always figured she was too much of a catch for you to hog all to yourself forever haha;  
PG: >lololol sure  
PG: >still gotta third wheel tho  
PG: >she needs me for them sweet sweet juices  
SB: never speak again please;  
PG: >nope 8D  
PG: >oh man  
PG: >shes here  
SB: folykl?;  
PG: >no idiot  
PG: >shes always here  
PG: >i meant the gf  
SB: what = she like;  
PG: >cleaner than i thought  
PG: >like way cleaner  
PG: >also theres some weird cerulean here too  
PG: >gtg  
PG: >have fun with your date  
SB: have fun with fols date;  
PG: >maybe i will  
PG: >fucker  
PG: ...  
PG: > <3<

pwnageGenerator [PG] ceased trolling snakeBytes [SB]

SB: wait what;  


___

placidPurifier [PP] began trolling icarusLives [IL] at 10:32HRS

PP: Hey -_-  
PP: What’s your status? -_-

icarusLives [IL] is idle!

PP: Okay, I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re still busy at the academy, then -_-  
PP: I’ll try to stay online as long as I can -_-  
PP: Or, as long as my husk battery lasts, at least -_-

placidPurifier [PP] began trolling icarusLives [IL] at 11:13HRS

PP: Vikare? -_-  
PP: Where are you? ·_·

___

zZz_BUZZING_zZz [ZB] began trolling countryyladyy453 [CL] at 11:07HRS

ZB: mizz skylla!!  
ZB: im SO so so sorry to bother you  
ZB: youre probably super duper busy right now  
ZB: which i guezz iz a given considering your ranch situation  
ZB: i mean  
ZB: id imagine that wrangling lusii is really hard work!!  
ZB: especially for someone who doesnt really have a super strong natural psychic connection to them like i do with my beez  
ZB: which means you actually have to manage them by hand…it seemz so much more inconvenient omg :/  
ZB: aaaaaaAAAA I JUST REALIZED HOW THAT SOUNDED OMG  
ZB: IM  
ZB: plz ignore everything above thiz message!!  
ZB: itz all stupid!!  
ZB: aagh i just dont think before i type sometimez  
ZB: which iz super duper bad  
ZB: …tho i guezz not always??  
ZB: i mean ive heard that itz good to just say what you mean and not overthink it  
ZB: just live in the moment and let thingz flow naturally yanno  
ZB: be urself n youll be happier  
ZB: it seemz to work really good for some ppl  
ZB: but not me :/  
ZB: i just keep making mistakez  
ZB: and saying stuff thatz bad or dumb  
ZB: and ppl keep getting mad at me :(  
ZB: mostly just online but still!!  
ZB: itz not great!!  
ZB: these days ive been trying to think more abt what i say before i say it  
ZB: or type it i guezz  
ZB: but then i just overthink it and i dont do anything!  
ZB: i just end up thinking alot abt how all my ideaz are bad n small n unimportant in the grand scheme of thingz!!  
ZB: and how no one should listen to me bc everything i say iz wrong and bad!!  
ZB: and maybe i dont really deserve to talk to anybody bc im just using up their time and space  
ZB: and it sucks!!  
ZB: uuuggh i just wish i ALWAYS knew the right thing to say  
ZB: that would be so much easier  
ZB: THEN maybe ppl i talk to might like me  
ZB: but i guezz itz too late :C  
ZB: im stuck with this version of me who always sayz the wrong thingz at the wrong timez  
ZB: and everybody knowz that  
ZB: and i dont know how to fix it  
ZB: great now i made myself sad again…:’(  
ZB: OMG i just realized ive just been sending all thiz without thinking again!!  
ZB: not to mention i JUST checked the date  
ZB: its oozeday so youre probably out on a run with ladyy and the other canine lusii rn  
ZB: aka the one SPECIFIC day of the wipe you usually arent around til after midnight  
ZB: aaaagggh im so dumb  
ZB: ok so first thingz first  
ZB: if youre scrolling up rn plz dont scroll further up than THIZ message right here!!  
ZB: itz not important!!  
ZB: ok so  
ZB: i need ur help!!  
ZB: something crashed into my bee combz!!  
ZB: the lil guyz are mostly all ok and i managed to calm them now  
ZB: but itz still really bad!! D:  
ZB: i think one of the combz might be on fire a lil bit?!  
ZB: if u see thiz plz come help!! >_<  
ZB: if u cant come i totally understand and respect your decision and hope u have a good day thank u

zZz_BUZZING_zZz [ZB] ceased trolling countryyladyy453 [CL]

zZz_BUZZING_zZz [ZB] began trolling countryyladyy453 [CL]

ZB: oh rite i just remembered smth else  
ZB: WHATEVER u do  
ZB: please please pleeeease dont bring ladyy  
ZB: or at least not too close  
ZB: the beez get mad whenever she triez to lick the honeycombz and now that theyre all over the place i dont know how theyd react :0  
ZB: OH MY GOG THE COMBZ ARE ON FIRE GTG

zZz_BUZZING_zZz [ZB] ceased trolling countryyladyy453 [CL]

___

xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx [XB] began trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK at 10:33HRS

XB: Greetings, my nakama!  
XB: No doubt you are surprised to hear from me again, and so soon!  
XB: For I had so irreparab/y severed our bonds as c/assmates and fe//ow keepers of justice, no doubt devastating our once-incorruptib/e group with the /oss of its most dead/y member.  
XB: But they sha// be severed no /onger!  
XB: For I have made up my thinkpan, and I now know where my /oya/ties /ie.  
XB: It was with a heavy pumpbiscuit and a reso/ve of stone that I, not two hours before this moment, turned to wa/k away from you, my dear o/d friends.  
XB: Back then, I be/ieved you had a// turned from the path of righteous /ight to instead wa/k that most wretched and seductive path of darkness and criminal/ity.  
XB: I be/ieved you had abandoned true justice, and, subsequent/y, that you had abandoned me, as we//.  
XB: Oh, such agony I fe/t as I wa/ked away! Even now I can fee/ my very sou/ ache! Itai! Itai!  
XB: My heart was an abyss, my sou/ entrenched in void.  
XB: But a/as, I have come to see the /ight.  
XB: I see now that it was I, not you, who was the abandoner.  
XB: And so, I say unto you, my most precious castemates: gomenasai.  
XB: I fa// to my knees in metaphorica/ supp/ication before you, p/eading for yosakgdfjhjkgdjkghsdkjahg;sd;fhgjhjjjj  
XB: Apo/ogies. My current trave/ing companions are growing impatient.  
XB: Where are you now?  
XB: I have returned to the apartment, but it appears that you have a// gone.  
XB: Did something happen?

BadlyOverworked [BO] began trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK at 10:37HRS

BO: wwwwhat are you talking about  
BO: aren’t you here rn?  
XB: Nani?!

SeyzatAuditerrrorServicesLtd [SA] began trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK at 10:37HRS

||||||_ [II] began trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK at 10:38HRS

bettercallgorgor [BC] began trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK at 10:38HRS

SA: I MUST ADMIT IM RATHER CONFUSED AS WELL  
SA: TEGIRI??  
SA: WHERE ARE YOU?  
II: lol h33 dipped out lik33 two hours ago  
BO: oh mmmmakes sense  
BC: Honestly, I’m not surprised. *__________  
SA: OH MY GOODNESS I HADNT REALISED  
SA: TEGIRI ARE YOU ALRIGHT

xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx [XB] is idle!

BO: great, nowwww he’s gone  
SA: OH DEAR  
II: good riddance  
BC: You know, Entykk, considering your screen name, it truly surprises me how often you forget to shower.  
BC: I suppose it’s rather fitting. *___________  
BO: wwwwowwww, howwww original  
BO: haven’t heard THAT one before  
BO: oh wwwwait- i have  
BO: in fact it’s even mmmmore asinine nowwww that you’re literally texting me this wwwwhile sat directly across frommmm mmmme  
BC: I’d come right up and say it if I didn’t think I’d asphyxiate. *___________  
BO: dude. i’mmmm pretty sure it’s not even mmmme  
BO: firstly—i did ablutions just three days ago  
SA: WE REALLY NEED TO DISCUSS WHAT YOU THINK ARE SUFFICIENT ABLUTIONS MY DARLING  
BO: in a mmmminute sugarplummmm  
BO: secondly—there are over a dozen trolls crammmmed into this limo  
BO: even if i did smmmmell, there’s no way i’mmmm the sole contributor  
BC: Emphasis on “sole”.  
BC: Frankly, Seyzat, I don’t know _how_ you can share a joint hive with this one. *___________  
SA: ID SAY THE SAME FOR YOUR LUSUS IF HE WERE HERE  
II: OOOOHH SHOTS FIR33D!  
SA: NOT NOW TIRONA DEAR  
BO: shut up tirona  
BC: Do shut up, Tirona. *___________  
SA: NOOO DONT SAY THAT TO HER  
SA: HONESTLY YOU TWO  
SA: WERE MEANT TO BE HER ROLE MODELS AND QUITE FRANKLY  
SA: WERE SETTING A TERRIBLE EXAMPLE FOR HER RIGHT NOW  
SA: WE SHOULD ALL BE ASHAMED  
BO: …  
BC: …  
II: its whatev33r st33ls dont fr33ak out  
II: im not a grub!  
II: you dont n3333d to self c33nsor around m33 or anything  
SA: COME HERE DEAR ILL GIVE YOU A NICE BIG HUG AND THEN THESE TWO OLD GRUMPS WILL APOLOGIZE FOR BEING SO RUDE WONT THEY  
SA: WONT THEY  
BO: wwwwe wwwwill?  
BC: We won’t. *___________  
SA: THEY **WILL  
**SA: NOW COME OVER HERE SO I CAN FIX YOUR HAIR DEAR ITS LOOKING A BIT ASKEW   
II: uuuuugggghh noooo your33 so embarrassing!  
II: im gonna go ov33r th33r33 and mak33 fun of wanshi som33 mor33.  
II: sm33ll ya lat33r

||||||_[II] ceased trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK

SA: WHOS THIS WANSHI GIRL  
BO: one of the jades, i think  
BO: probably the little one tirona wwwwas talking to earlier  
BC: Oh, yes, I remember that.  
BC: Here I’d thought Tirona was a bit young for blackrom, but you’ve got to start somewhere, I suppose. *___________  
SA: OH MY IS THAT REALLY WHAT THAT WAS  
BO: probably  
BO: just look at themmmm nowwww  
BC: Did Tirona really just snatch her book? How brazen. *___________  
BC: Wait, is that…?  
SA: GOODNESS ME  
BO: yep, looks like this wwwwanshi girl’s yanking on her oinkbeasttails nowwww  
BC: Adorable. *___________  
SA: OH I DO HOPE NEITHER OF THEM GETS HURT IT WOULD BE SUCH A SHAME TO SEE TIRONA HEARTBROKEN AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE  
XB: sorry to INTERRUPT  
XB: is this the TEALS  
BO: the text color didn’t clue you in?  
XB: just thought id CHECK  
XB: you never KNOW  
SA: WHO IS THIS I DONT RECOGNIZE THAT TYPING STYLE ARE YOU ONE OF TEGIRIS SO CALLED TRAVELING COMPANIONS  
XB (?): YES  
XB (?): i THINK  
XB (?): is tegiri the same as the guy called KALBUR  
BO: yeah kalbur is his castenammmme  
XB (?): oh ok sure  
XB (?): anyways  
XB (?): he got really UPSET for SOME REASON  
XB (?): think hes sulking  
XB (?): whats up with THAT  
BC: Nothing of any real consequence. That’s just how he is. *___________  
XB (?): i mean that seems LEGIT  
XB (?): so where are you guys  
XB (?): were at the right place and no ones HERE  
BO: wwwwho’s asking?  
XB (?): ME  
XB (?): you have my AUSPISTICE  
XB (?): mine and my matesprits that is  
XB (?): i want to see them  
XB (?): dont trust anyone else to keep them SAFE  
XB (?): no OFFENSE  
BO: none taken, honestly  
BO: i wwwwouldn’t exactly say any of us are particularly safe right nowwww  
XB (?): what HAPPENED  
BO: nothing yet  
BO: wwwwe’re en route to a temporary safehouse, but there’s no guarantee howwww long wwwwe’ll be able to stay there  
BO: i can send you a gps pin once wwwwe’ve arrived  
SA: ZIZI DEAREST  
SA: MY LOVE  
SA: MY LIFE  
SA: MY DARLING DOLLOP OF SWEET SCARLET NECTAR  
SA: WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING GIVING OUR COORDINATES TO THIS STRANGER OF DUBIOUS INTENT  
BO: ok first of all, i’mmmm swwwwooning  
BO: let that be firmmmmly established  
BC: Must you really do this in the group chat? *___________  
BO: _second_ of all, it’s fine, swwweeetpea  
BO: i knowwww wwwwho this is  
SA: YOU DO  
BC: You do? *___________  
XB (?): you DO?  
BO: i recognized the typing quirk  
BO: wwwwe mmmmessaged a fewwww timmmmes wwwwhen i wwwwas collecting evidence for your mmmmatesprit’s case  
XB (?): oh its YOU  
XB (?): thanks for that BY THE WAY  
SA: THANKS FOR WHAT  
BO: her mmmmatesprit got sued for injuring a seadwwwweller during a duel strifers tournammmment about twwwwo perigees ago  
BO: it wwwwas a fairly quick case  
XB (?): would have been even quicker if daja just KILLED them back when he had the CHANCE  
BC: As lovely as all this has been, which it hasn’t, I suggest you dullards look up from your husks right about now.  
BC: We’ve arrived. *___________  
BO: …you _did_ tell himmmm wwwwe wwwwere coming, right

bettercallgorgor [BC] ceased trolling groupchat SLEEP IS FOR THE MEEK

BO: gog dammmmn it

___

MOOLAHMANIA_FEVER [MF] began trolling DeathlessMirth [DM] at 09:19HRS

MF: [()] YOU.  
MF: [()] My purplest and most pitiless of sisters.  
MF: [()] Too long has it been since last we fought, bodies and souls meeting in a GLORIOUS union of MUSCLE and MIGHT.  
MF: [()] Since I have tasted the bittersweet zest of your BLOOD and SWEAT.  
MF: [()] To be specific, it has been OVER AN HOUR too long, sister.  
MF: [()] Why is it that your painted countenance has yet to grace the shining doors of the Muscle Theater?  
MF: [()] Did you perhaps FORGET?  
DM: you waTch your preTTy Tongue There  
DM: i don’T forgeT noThing  
DM: jusT goT a liTTle more on my moTherfucking plaTe this fine evening  
MF: [()] I find your excuses to be INADEQUATE, sister.  
MF: [()] Highblood status notwithstanding.  
MF: [()] I don’t much APPRECIATE being stood up.  
MF: [()] Not when I even went and busted out the good armbands in my BURNING ANTICIPATION of our duel.  
DM: damn, The good armbands? sounds like i’m really missing ouT here  
MF: [()] You bet your GLOBES you are!!  
DM: well, i can promise you i won’T be missing ouT on nexT week’s maTch  
DM: messiahs Take my Tongue and blunT my fangs if i don’T keep my word  
MF: [()] Your RENEWED CONVICTIONS are much appreciated, sister.  
MF: [()] And you could make it up to me even more by offering to pay for some HEARTY VICTUALS for us to regain our MIGHT and VIGOR following the duel.  
DM: you askin’ me To Take you ouT To dinner?  
MF: [()] I ask for NOTHING but your tremendous strength by which to bolster my own, sister.  
DM: heh, cuTe  
DM: you know i'd Take you ouT any day of the wipe, moTherfucker  
MF: [()] Do you mean “take me out” in the fighting sense, or in the more…intimate sense?  
DM: how ‘bouT boTh?  
MF: [()] You’re ON, sister.  
MF: [()] Get ready for a BLOODBATH.  
DM: oh i'm counTing on iT  
DM: iT’s a moTherfucking daTe  
DM: jusT goTTa make sure a liTTle friend of mine geTs themselves someplace safe  
DM: the nighT is young sTill and These hands have blood lefT to spill  
DM: i can feel iT  
MF: [()] Oh, you BETTER save some of that bloodlust for our date, MAENAD.  
DM: i'll do my level besT, moolah  
DM: buT i make no promises  
DM: goT a feel ThaT i'm going to spilling a whole loT of blood TonighT

She will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hot tip: write tyzias’ screen name in kankri’s typing quirk and see what happens


	21. Of Invasions and Inevitability, Challenged

Your name is GALEKH XIGISI, and you have just been awakened from a sleeping daymare to a waking one.

It’s not at all uncommon for you to fall asleep at your desk. For all the good a caffeinated beverage will do you, at least one in every four books you own have served as a makeshift pillow at one point or another.1 Still, sore neck and wrinkled pages aside, it’s better that you drift off when reading rather than writing. You still haven’t fully recovered from that time you accidentally drifted off while the pages for your newest chapter had been laid out on your desk to dry.2 And yes, without the lulling influence of your recuperacoon, this habit of falling asleep at your desk occasionally results in daymares, but again, it’s not a thing that even happens very often in the first place.

(1. Some more than once, in fact. 2. Fortunately, the words themselves were still intact. The _issue_ was that they were printed across your face.)

Right now, however, daymares are very much not your biggest concern. As you groggily emerge from strange and disjointed visions of a golden city turning to dust beneath a burning sky, you gradually become aware of a very distinctive noise: _crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch._

How odd. It sounds just like—1 

(1. Ohhhhh no no no no NO NO NO GOATDAD NO)

A horrifying realization comes screeching into your thinkpan at breakneck speed, shredding any lingering scraps of your dream and yanking you back into the waking world with a sharp jolt— literally, because the minute your head starts to raise up off the surface of the desk, it immediately collides with your reading lamp, knocking it over with a clatter.

You wince, more from the harsh sound than any actual pain the lampshade could have dealt you, and rise to sit upright, slowly this time. As you do so, you search blindly for your spectacles, but your hands fail to encounter their familiar shape as they skim the surface of the desk.1 Another series of _crunch_es sounds from just a few feet away, and your head immediately snaps up to take in the damage, automatically squinting as you do so.

(1. Perhaps they fell to the floor?)

Despite the expected blurriness, you can immediately make out the familiar shape of your lusus. However, where you had expected a huge mess of half-devoured paper and scattered tomes, he seems to simply be sat, munching contentedly, in the middle of the floor, seemingly unconcerned with the surprisingly-intact-looking bookcases and paper stacks surrounding him.1

(1. Regardless, you make a mental note to look over them later for any damages.)

Equally-if not more- perplexing is that Goatdad appears to have…company, of a sort. As terrible as your unassisted eyesight tends to be, you can very clearly make out a trolloid figure sat on the floor next to your parental unit. They appear to be facing slightly away from you, and if they are aware of your having awakened, they don’t show it.

Quietly, cautiously, you stand and make your away around the desk, mentally thanking your past self for investing in such thick carpeting in your study, as it makes it easy to inch soundlessly closer to the duo sat in the middle of the floor. Once you are just two feet away from them, squinting to make out any details, you are able to make two (2) very important deductions:

One, you have never before seen this troll in your life.

Two, they are feeding Goatdad _something_ out of the palm of their hand, and if the noises you’ve been hearing are any indication, Goatdad has already eaten _a lot of it._

You move almost without thinking, stepping forward with the intent of shoving the other troll away from your lusus with as much force as you can muster.1 Before you can lay a hand upon the other troll, however, Goatdad catches sight of you and lets out a cheery bleat, causing you to momentarily falter.

(1. Which is quite a lot of force.2 (2. You have thought for neither tact nor appropriate restraint. That’s your fucking _dad_ this stranger is touching.))

The other troll looks up, then. This close, with you practically looming over them, you can see their face clearly, confirming your earlier deduction- you have no idea of who this is. You half-expect them to yell, or run away, or both, but they do absolutely none of those things. They just continue to sit there, slowly blinking up at you, nothing in their expression suggesting anything approaching either fear nor menace. If anything, they look mildly surprised, as though _you_ are the one whose presence is unexpected in your own home.

“Good evening…” they offer, after a few painfully long moments.

“Good evening.” You reply, numbly, automatically, as though this is a completely normal interaction and that you are not standing over a complete stranger you may or may not have just been about to murder in a fit of filial-love-based rage because of your assumption1 that they broke into your home and then proceeded to let your surrogate father into your closed2 study and feed him harmful substances while you slept in.

(1. To be fair, this troll has done nothing to dissuade you of this assumption. 2. You are absolutely certain of this. The only time you unlock the lusus-proof gate to your study is when getting in and out yourself, and you haven’t left, so...)

“Didn’t…see you there…” the other troll says, shrugging lightly in the direction of the desk, which you know without looking is piled high with research material, and which indeed would probably obscure anyone sleeping with their head down on the _wait why are you even thinking about this right now. Your father, your life’s work, and possibly even _you_ could be in grave danger right now. Get it together, Xigisi._

You cross your arms and do you level best to glare intimidatingly at the strange troll while also half-squinting at them.1 “How did you get in?”

(1. Your eyesight is almost embarrassingly bad for an indigoblood. You assume it’s an ancestral thing, because you’ve had spectacles on since literal grubhood.)

Another slow blink. “Door was open…and this guy seemed…hungry…” As they say this, the other troll gestures vaguely to the floor, and you look down to see a half-gnawed copy of _The Little Heiress._1 Goatdad at least has the grace to look a tad bit apologetic before returning his attention to whatever’s in the strange troll’s palm. This close, you can just make out something purplish, but it’s not enough to identify it.

(1. It’s not too great a loss. The copy itself isn’t valuable; four sweeps ago, when you’d been teaching yourself some of the Northwest Alternian dialects, you’d purchased it for the sake of translation practise. Still, the loss of any book is a tragedy.2 (2. With the exception of a _select_ few you’d rather not think too much about, as experiencing them just once was enough.))

The strange troll seems to have followed your gaze to their palm. “You hungry…too…?” they offer. As they say this, they pull another fistful of the strange organic material from their tunic and hold it up to you. You only get a short glimpse of it up close— it looks to be some kind of flora, brittle violet stalks with tufted silver heads—before getting hit with a smell so overwhelmingly _pungent_ that you actually have to take a step back, clamping a hand over your stinging cartilaginous nub as your ganderbulbs water. To say it’s the worst thing you’ve ever smelt is a severe understatement. It’s more like the worst thing you’ve ever physically experienced, ever.

The other troll just shrugs, mumbles a “suit yourself…”, proceeds to pop _the entire handful_ of the purple weeds into their mouth, stands, dusts themselves off, and ambles out of the room, Goatdad trotting happily after them, the pair of them _crunch-crunch-crunching _as they go. You watch them go, thinkpan reeling, using every fiber of your prodigious strength not to retch onto the carpet.

It takes you a good few minutes to steady your breathing, at which point the sound of your lusus’ hoofbeats have long since faded into the distance. Bearings regained, you set about taking stock of the situation. _Alright. Here’s the situation, as best as I can tell: your home has been invaded by a listless troll in a floppy sunhat.1 Said troll has enthralled your hapless lusus with what is clearly some kind of sedative.2 Aforementioned sedative produces strong odor which was used to temporarily incapacitate you and may be used again to such an end in the near future. Now, what will you do?_

(1. Without triggering any of the home defense systems, somehow. 2. Which _they also_ _ate_. Somehow. Despite the…you know what, it’s best you don’t think too hard about it, lest you remember the smell and actually throw up.)

Once you can well and truly breathe again, you search your study for any additional damages. Other than the one book, all appears well.1 You then set about retrieving a weapon with which to defend yourself. The best you can find is an antique letter-opener you don’t think you’ve ever used. You rather hope you won’t have to make use of it now, either. It would be such a shame to soil it.

(1. Still, one can only dread what kind of state the rest of the house is in.)

You make another attempt at finding your glasses, but they don’t appear to be anywhere in the study. Which is absurd, because there was no possible way you could have been up working so late without them. The only conclusion you can come to is that the intruder must have taken them without your noticing. Why and how, you can’t fathom. They didn’t exactly strike you as a cunning mastermind, and yet… hm. Well, you’ll have to make do without them.1

(1. This is why you should have invested in spare pairs.)

When you step carefully out into the corridor of your home, you _immediately_ know the situation is far more dire than you had initially assumed. The long ground-floor hall that runs the length of your home appears to be empty, but all around you can hear the low buzz of conversation, of many different people speaking at different tones in other rooms. Clicks and clatters and shouts and the occasional burst of laughter echo along its length, setting off a whole imperial base’s worth of alarm bells in your thinkpan.

How and when and why has your home been invaded? And by _who_? Was there some social engagement you’d had planned, only to sleep through it? No, not possible. Where social engagement is concerned, the most you contribute is hosting bisweeply dinners for other academics. Whatever has caused a multitude of trolls to inhabit your home around midnight1 on an Oozeday, it’s certainly not _your_ doing.

(1. Did you really sleep in until almost midnight? Wait, no, it’s 11:14AM on your watch. Still not _great_, but better.)

You go to reach for your palmhusk to call the drones, only to remember your habit of leaving it silenced on the charger whenever you get deep into a writing frenzy. Said charger being located in your respiteblock. Drat. Slowly and carefully, you begin making your way down the hall, trying to ignore the nervous jitters dancing along your skin and clutching the letter-opener like a lifeline.

Just before you reach the first open doorway- the door to the nutritionblock- you freeze at the sound of movement from inside. Cautiously, you edge slightly closer to peer around the edge of the doorframe and assess the situation.

For about half a second, you get a glimpse of three trolls, all of them perched on _your_ nice clean counters, munching through the contents of what looks an awful lot like your stash of—

_Then_ your head smacks against the sharp edge of the doorframe1 as someone shoves you bodily aside to storm into the room, bellowing “_CHILDREN_!” loud enough to make your ears ring.2

(1. Ouch. 2. Double ouch.)

It takes a couple of seconds for the bright spots in your vision to clear. Once they do, you waste no time, striding into the nutritionblock.

What you see is that the three trolls previously sat on the counters—none of whom you recognize, and none of which are the troll you saw earlier— are now stood in a line, their faces displaying varying degrees of shame as the troll who shoved you just seconds ago paces before them, ranting “—cannot _believe_ the three of you would act like this in someone else’s home, I thought I raised you better than this, you should be _ashamed_ of—”

As you watch, trying to parse whatever the hell this situation is, one of the trolls being lectured—the eldest of the guilty trio, a sulky troll with a jade caste sign stitched into her shirt1— meets your gaze over the shouting troll’s shoulder. “▼uh, hey, bronya, i think our _host_ is awake ▲” she says, cutting off the older troll’s tirade.

(1. At least, you _think_ it’s a caste sign. Without your glasses it just looks like a jade smear.)

At this, the troll who shoved you whirls around to face you. Before you can say a word, she starts talking at you: “vV OH, I didn’t see you there! Please excuse my charges, they aren’t usually this ill-behaved. Vv” At this, she gestures around her, drawing your gaze to the empty snack boxes1 littering the counters. Your pusher sinks.

(1. Although one of your caste is expected to have a more…refined palate, especially at your age, you must concede to having a severe weakness; said weakness takes the form of those two-caegar chocolate biscuit packets they sell at Wailmart. It’s a guilty pleasure of yours, for sure, and seeing all your carefully-saved boxes of treats littered like trash over your respiteblock counters, gaping and empty like holes in your bloodpusher…the grief and anger is like nothing you’ve ever experienced in all your life.)

“Frankly, the uncouth behavior of your charges is the least of my concerns right now.” you say, icily. “Still, I would _highly_ recommend your keeping a more attentive eye on them in the future.”

“I’d be more than happy to compensate you for the results of any misbehavior on their part.” Replies the elder jade, with surprising civility.

“I should very much hope so.” you tut, and, unable to restrain your ire1, continue: “Absolutely disgraceful, the way the younger generations behave these days. They _clearly_ haven’t been raised to uphold the standards of any remotely civilized troll.2 The lusii must be going soft nowadays if this sort of “misbehavior” has become such a norm.”

(1. In your defense, you just woke up, you have no idea who any of these people are, and _all the tiny chocolate biscuits are gone._ _Someone_ needs to pay. 2. Housebreaking aside, eating snacks that have very obviously been hidden away by their owner is extremely bad form, the offender’s caste be damned.)

Your vision isn’t good enough to accurately track the shift in the elder jade’s expression, but you most certainly register the change in her tone when she responds.

“I’m sorry, did you just call my charges _uncivilized_?”

“The evidence speaks for itself, _madam_. I’m frankly surprised you allow them to go unsupervised if this sort of thing is typical of them.”

“Well, I can assure you, _sir_, that 1. My charges are _nothing_ if not well-behaved, responsible young trolls who take their caste duties _very _seriously! 2. It is not fair of you to judge them so harshly on the basis of one small mistake. 3. Furthermore, what gives you the right to make judgements on me _or_ their lusii? I know how to handle my own charges, thank you very much, and I’d rather you not provide your uninformed input on such matters.”

“Oh? You point out _my_ propensity for making quick judgements out of ignorance, without realizing that that, in itself, is an ignorant judgement upon me.1 I will have you know that I have read a substantial number of academic papers on effective grub-rearing.2 Go ahead, ask me anything. You’ll find that I am quite well-informed on this subject.”

(1. Ha, ha. 2. Something _you_ would clearly benefit from.)

“vV You really think that makes you qualified to judge? Ha. Reading papers isn’t the same as actually _experiencing_ any of it. The processes of grub-rearing and peer mentorship are highly challenging for those who choose to undertake them and I will _not_ stand their hard work being so casually discounted. Vv”

“I’m not discounting the duties as a whole. As a matter of fact, I actually have a great amount of respect for the lusii and the trolls who staff and maintain the brooding caverns.1 I’m just saying that it would have benefited the mentors2 and/or lusii of your peers right here” at this you gesture to what is now an empty space, as all three younger trolls have long since fled “to invest more time and effort in teaching them about basic etiquette.”

(1. After all, it’s likely you wouldn’t exist without them. 2. Among whom I assume you are included, based on your defensiveness.)

“Oh? And have you ever visited the caverns? Or spoken to anyone there? No, I didn’t think so. Unless you’ve actually experienced it, I don’t see how other people’s parental skills are any of your business.”

“It becomes my business when someone else’s charges _break into my home and eat my food_ without my permission.” You snap.

“That’s not—” the jade troll cuts off, then. At this point, she’s near enough that you can make out the shock that floods her features. “Wait— you aren’t— _break in?_”

“Yes, I do believe that’s what it’s called when you let yourself into the home of someone who neither knows you nor lets you in themselves.1”

(1. i.e. this exact situation?)

She looks genuinely puzzled, now. “But I thought…he had a _key,_ so why didn’t—”

“_Who _had a key?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

You are absolutely going to _kill_ your kismesis.

…As soon as you find your glasses.

* * *

Your name is ARDATA CARMIA, and you are holding someone else’s hand.

This in itself is no great concern. Of _course_ there are people who want to hold your hand. There are probably _legions _of trolls who want to hold your hand. After all, you’re _Ardata Carmia!_ The darling of the torture snuff vid scene! Holder of a hard-won GrubTuber of the Sweep award, winning glorious validation for all the other makers of torture vids and breaking the glass ceiling holding them back from mainstream popularity! Who _wouldn’t_ want to hold your hand? Hell, you can name a good number of other streamers who would delete their channels just for the chance to kiss the tips of your boots. On camera, no less.

The _thing_ is.

The thing about _this_ situation is. It’s.

It’s something different.

Just. Different.

It is so completely and utterly and thoroughly different from whatever it is supposed to be and you are not quite sure of how and why but you just _know _it is.

You’re trying not to think too hard about what it’s meant to be different _from_ exactly because your thinkpan is already screaming with a million different thoughts like a swarm of electrified squeakbugs has taken up residence between your ears and you really do not want them to get any louder because then _you_ might start shrieking and that is not exactly a wise tactical move right now.

So.

You do not think about it.

You do not think about the warm palm touching yours, with rough patches and calluses that scrape lightly against your skin whenever you move.

You do not think about the fingers locked firmly around your own.

You do not think about how, when your grip begins to slip from the clammy sweat beading on your palm, the fingers tighten, ever so slightly, muscle and bone shifting to curl more firmly around your hand.

Most of all, you do your absolute best not to think of what happened a few minutes ago, as you followed the rustblood janitor with a face you could not read down into the darkest alleys of the lowblood district.

There was nothing else you could do, really. With your channel losing followers and imperial law enforcement on the brink of convicting you with extraterrestrial collusion, the most you could do was help the rustie with her plan to get the alien off-world. It’s not as though you had anything better to do.

Well, sure, you could have curled up in a ball cried some more, but you _just_ re-did your makeup and, unlike emotional meltdowns, good mascara isn’t for free.

You resolutely do not think about how your terror mounted the further into the dark you went, how every little scuttle or scamper among the dumpsters had you digging holes into your shawl.

You do not think about the drone raid sirens that suddenly sounded from several streets away, splitting the air and freezing the both of you in place; how your fraying nerves finally broke into pieces, and you instinctively flinching towards the rustblood troll and clutching at her arm.

You do not think about how she, without looking back at you, carefully and inexorably pulled her right arm from your grip.

You totally do not think about how she then tugged off her right work glove and tucked it carefully into an apron pocket.

You absolutely do not think about how she then reached out to wordlessly take your hand in her own.

And now, endless minutes and seconds later, with several alleys and streets between you and the fading echoes of sirens and terrified screams, she has yet to let go.

You cannot think about it. You _will _not think about it. You’re not totally sure why, but you feel as though thinking about it even for a second will destroy this- this- _whatever_ this is, whatever this is that’s making your bloodpusher float and your thinkpan whirl.

You can feel it hovering just above you, a vast and soundless doom, its many, many eyes all focused on a single point. The intersection of your hand with her hand is a breach, a transgression, a pinprick of inexplicable radiance in the fabric of the world you thought you knew so well, and if you dare to linger upon it, the world will take it from you. You _know_ this, all too well, although you are not sure of how; nonetheless, it is a fact of which you are more sure of than your own name.

If you let go of her hand, right now, if you pulled each joint of your prongs free of hers and broke each point of contact, you know she would not reach to take it back, nor would she say a word.

If you let go now, the many lidless eyes of doom would look away from you, or at least some of them would.

But if you keep holding her hand, more eyes will join in, more and more and more until all you can see is your end, staring you in the face, no matter where you look.

You close your own eyes and breathe, just once.

And then you don’t let go of her hand.

It’s nice, you think. Different, but nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Galekh and Bronya "maam could you please control your kids" interaction has been haunting my brain for weeks now and now I finally get to exorcise it and go to sleep
> 
> I will be traveling next week and so will most likely be publishing the NEXT chapter a few days late. Thanks for your patience!!


	22. Of Situations, Sticky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw time

Your name is SKYLLA KORIGA, and you are a troll on a mission.

Above you, the moons hang full and bright as a pair of ripe summer nectarfruits, gently oozing their rose-and-lime glow out onto the plains before you. Your well-worn boots beat twin tracks into the dirt as you run, keeping your ganderbulbs peeled for any sign of trouble as you steadily make your way out to your neighbor’s farm. The plains _look_ undisturbed, no sign of the tire treads or lusus traps that typically mark a recent bandit incursion, but you can’t be too careful. The varmints have only gotten bolder and cleverer over the last couple perigees, and you’ll be damned if you’ll let them get one over you again.

A sound of pitter-pattering paws just at your heels, keeping pace with you, reminds you that you’re not alone. Of course, you’d left Ladyy back at the ranch, to keep an eye on the other lusii in case the bandits circled round to take another go at nabbing them. You’d been all set to go the trip alone, but then one of the little ones had started making those big mournful eyes at you, and now, well…

You glance over your shoulder to check up on your running companion. The puppy lusus is only a quarter Ladyy’s size, but if he’s anything like his momma, you know he’ll be all bark and all bite, no question. The fact that he’s still keeping pace with you after a mile and a half is impressive to say the least. Your bloodpusher swells with pride.

“Yy’all right there, Sonnyy?” you call over your shoulder, just in case. Sonnyy lets out an affirming _yip_. “Good boyy. Yyour mama oughta be proud.”

Another _yip_ from Sonnyy, louder this time, and you laugh aloud, the sound ringing out bright and true in the clear night air.

As your thoughts linger fondly on the newest of Ladyy’s litter, you can’t help but feel a bitter pang of loss yet to come. Like all the lusii you’ve brought up, nurtured, and (on occasion) wrangled with in the comfortable confines of the corral, you know Sonnyy and his siblings will have to leave all too soon. Oh, _sure_, you’ve probably got another six, seven perigees with them, but you know for certain those perigees will just…slip away, cascading second by second to pour in a steady stream between your grasping fingers.

Sure as the moons, the lusii will start to feel it—that nurturing instinct built into their very bones, that urge that whispers in each ear and tickles at each scale and prong and paw, that force that calls them, one and all, to make their way to the brooding caverns, and take their places there, in the dark and the damp, watching ardently the rows and rows of softly breathing eggs. You know this. You’ve seen it happen so many times already; a lusus takes to skipping mealtimes and playtime in favor of looking off into the distance, eyes full of that special yearning, and the next night, you let them take their leave.

It’s always a sad thing, to see a lusus go, but hey, that’s just the circle of life ‘round these parts— birth, adolescence, indeterminate period of time spent raising a specific grub to conscription age, old age, death.

Still, as accustomed you are to this cycle in which you take part, the thought of Sonnyy and his brothers and sisters up and leaving to raise their own grubs makes acid tract twist painfully. You know, you _know_, you can’t keep them around, but— they’re _Ladyy’s. _They’re her_ pups_. It just…makes things harder, somehow. What’s Ladyy going to do when they go? Hell, what’re _you_ going to do?

_Yyou _had_ to go and _name_ ‘em, didn’t‘cha, yya big lug._ You berate yourself. _Got all weepyy-bulbed and sentimental, yyou did, and _now_ yyou have to deal with it for who-knows-how-long. Hell, the passage of time is alreadyy such a greedyy, graspin’ ol’ thing, and yyou just went and made it a four-course meal, didn’t’cha? Yyou and yyour big fat bloodpusher, yyou._ _Gettin’ all soft for the transient again, yyou hopeless fool._

You sigh. _Well. Let’s just hope it don’t hurt too much, lettin’ ‘em go. ‘Course, it _will_, but yyou ain’t got time for _that_ kinda thing, Koriga. For now, you just focus on raisin’ ‘em right._

Lost in thought, another quarter-mile slides right on by, and you get the first glimpse at the damage. You still can’t see Zebede’s farm, but what you _do_ see is a thin plume of rising smoke up on the horizon. You quicken your pace, and soon enough, the cloying, eye-stinging smell of burned mind honey begins to prickle at your nostrils.

As the roof of your neighbor’s house comes into view, you detect the distant sound of what can only be several hundred bees in a wounded frenzy; you can feel the hum reverberating all the way from your auricular sponge clots to the marrow of your bones.

You hear Sonnyy whine his displeasure from behind you, and you slow your pace to a walk, whistling once for him to do the same. You turn to the pup now watching you expectantly, and get another pang, unwarranted. Darn, these little guys just get bigger the minute you look away, huh?

“Sit.” You command, and the lusus pup does so. You squat down to his level before continuing, “Now, listen real close, Sonnyy. I’m goin’ to head on in to take a gander at the situation. I need _yyou_ to stayy over here on lookout. Yyou get a whiff of anyyone who don’t smell right, yyou start barkin’, understood?”

He barks an affirmation. You grin at him, just barely restraining the urge to ruffle his head, and start making your way towards Zebede Tongva’s bee farm. As you do so, you reach around and grab the fire extinguisher you’d strapped to your back before leaving, double-checking for any corrosion or leaks before proceeding.

You round the corner of the beekeeper’s hive to see a tableau of complete and utter chaos. The first thing your ganderbulbs shoot to is the combs. A good two-thirds of them are no longer in their neat, uniform rows—some are dangerously tilted, and several others have toppled right over, knocking into other combs in the process like a row of sticky, angrily buzzing dominoes. For the most part, however, they seem to be intact. The air is thick with bees, swarming frantically around their destroyed homes and the growing puddles of mind honey pooling from under the fallen combs. They don’t seem to be paying much attention to you, thankfully, but you’ve got the feeling that getting any closer to them wouldn’t exactly be a wise move.

At the far end of the plot is the source of the disturbance. You can’t really sure of what you’re looking at, through all the bees and the pouring smoke, but you can just make out the shape of something large and grey, its outline and size all wrong for it to be a farm vehicle.

Another asteroid, maybe? You’ve heard tell of a couple crashing down ‘round the countryside these past couple of perigees. Whatever it is, it’s still smoldering from the impact, and on top of that it’s crushed right up against one of the bigger combs, which is almost entirely ablaze. Quickly, you knot a bandanna around your mouth and nub. Goldblood or no, mind honey’s a right foul thing to have in anybody’s system, and you’re gonna need your psychic powers at full capacity for _this_ mess.

The door to the cottage slams open, then, and you turn to see a small, familiar shape scurry out, clad in a neon yellow beekeeping suit with a heavy-duty gas mask. He’s struggling with a huge pitcher of water that threatens to slosh over the rim with each step.

Just as he reaches the combs, you see the beekeeper freeze as all the bees in the vicinity immediately swarm him without warning. You shout in alarm and run at a full sprint towards him, hurriedly readying your thinkpan to Commune with the bees. Insects aren’t exactly your forte, to be completely honest, and bees are a _particularly_ recalcitrant bunch, but you’ll be darned if you’re about to let your neighbor die like this.

As you draw nearer, however, you see that the situation isn’t as dire as it had appeared from afar. The bees don’t appear to be attacking Zebede; they’re swirling around him in panicked circles, loudly buzzing in a collective wail of hurt and panic. The honey-gold glow crackling from beneath the goggles of the gas mask tell you he’s doing his best to placate them, but it’s clearly all he can do to keep them that way.

Cautiously, carefully, and with full awareness of the fact that the only thing between you and a swarm of angry bees is some flannel and leather, you move closer to the immobilized beekeeper, until you’re in his line of sight. Wordlessly, you point to the water pitcher, then to you, then to the flaming comb.

You can’t see his eyes beneath the gas mask and the psionic glare, but he nods his understanding vehemently. He holds up a finger. _Wait._

The low psionic crackling grows steadily louder, raising hairs on the back of your arms and neck; as the beekeeper intensifies his powers, the buzzing of the bees gets quieter and quieter, their movements less and less frantic. More and more of them leave the toppled combs to drift towards the beekeeper, flowing towards him in a steady stream, some hovering sluggishly above his head, others clinging to the fabric of the beekeeping suit until the goldblood’s form is more black and brown than it is yellow.

Bees sufficiently lulled, Zebede thrusts the pitcher of water towards you. Tucking your extinguisher under your arm, you take the pitcher and begin immediately jogging towards the fire.

The flames have grown larger since you last checked, consuming the comb almost entirely and threatening to spread to the one it’s leaning against. Wasting no time, you set about dousing the worst of the flames. When the pitcher is empty, you toss it aside and take care of the rest with the extinguisher. The asteroid-thing is real close to you now, and you give the part nearest to you a shot of foam, too, for good measure.

Crisis sufficiently managed, you turn and give the goldblood a thumbs-up. He nods once in response and waits for you to jog clear of the combs before releasing his psionics, the glow fading from behind the gas mask. Slowly, the bees trickle away from him and back towards the hives, still clearly distressed but less so than before— the lingering effects of the goldblood’s psionics, perhaps, or maybe it’s to do with the fact that there isn’t a fire threatening to consume their hives.

You look away from the bees just in time to see the gold-blooded troll slump to the ground. A flare of panic jolts up your posture pole, and you run over to kneel in the grass beside him. “Yy’alright, kid?”

Slowly, the little beekeeper reaches up to peel off the gas mask and lower the hood of his beekeeping suit, revealing a face flushed and sweaty with exhaustion. “yeah im ok” he pants. “just, uh…never tried to…calm them all at once before…” He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve. “turnz out itz p rough”

He looks up at you, then, eyes wide. “omg they didnt sting you did they?!”

“Nope, not a one!” you exclaim, removing the bandanna to grin at him. “Good goin’, Zee!”

You give the smaller troll a hearty slap on the back as you say this, faceplanting Zebede directly into the grass. Whoops-a-daisy.

Sheepishly, you haul him back up to a sitting position. He barely seems to have registered it, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue. “Aw jeez. All tuckered out, huh?” you tut.

At this, Zebede quickly shakes his head. “no no itz fine! i gotta—” he yawns, “—i gotta get all the combz back up, or all the honeyz gonna get wasted, and _then_ i wont have enough for the farmerz market tomorrow, and then—”

“Yyou need a hand?” you offer, before the kid can work himself into a real tizzy.

The little beekeeper starts looking real cagey all of a sudden. “well, i mean…youve already done so much for me…and i dont want to inconvenience you or anything…” he hums and haws, fiddling with his fingers and very decidedly not meeting your gaze. “i mean…if you rly _want_ to itz fine by me...but like…i dont want to just _assume_…”

You suppress the urge to chuckle. Poor kid can’t ask for help without making a whole thing out of it, huh? Come to think of it, you were like that once, too, before you grew up and realized you could get a whole lot more done a whole lot faster if you just up and said it.

“I _insist_.” you clarify, standing and brushing some grass off your chaps before offering him a hand up.

The boy’s face immediately lights up. “o-omg rly?? thatz so nice of you! thank you so much!!” he gushes, like the fact that you’re helping him is a total surprise. Has he already forgotten that you stopped his farm from burning down just a few minutes before? Sure is a funny one, that Zebede.

“Whyy, yyou’re veryy welcome.” You reply, because your lusus sure as hell didn’t raise no degenerate, no siree. “Now, let’s get to fixin’ this place up.”

The next few minutes pass about as smoothly as one can hope for when dealing with a bee farm; i.e. requiring great care, caution, and gratuitous usage of psionics and psychic animal communion. Most of the combs are largely intact, mercifully, with just a few crushed sections here and there, and so all you actually have to _do_ is just heft them back upright and place them where they used to be. Zebede seems rather optimistic about it, actually, assuring you he has more than enough spare comb scaffolding to repair the torn patches.

With the smoke having cleared off a bit, you can now make out the shape of the object on the edge of the bee farm. The first thing you realize is that it is most certainly _not_ an asteroid. It’s a _ship_. A shuttle, to be exact, about the size of three scuttlebuggies pushed together. Looking just beyond it, you can see a long, muddy groove into the dirt, suggesting it crashed down from some ways away and skidded across the ground before coming to a rest smack dab in the plot of bee combs.

Behind you, you hear Zebede squeak in terror. “omg do you think—there could be _adultz_ in there??”

There very well could be, you know. You can see a good couple ways it could have gone down: a shuttle, taking a pack of conscription-age trolls on their way to a waiting battleship above, only to malfunction and come hurtling back down; or—although perhaps less likely—a group of deserter trolls, hurt, scared, nowhere else to go, making their way back to the planet with the futile hope of finding safety there. Hell, it might even be a prisoner transport that somehow got itself separated from a larger imperial convoy.

No matter the case, you know there’s a very real chance there could be adults on board that shuttle, and adults mean trouble.

You look at the dark, unmoving shape of the shuttle for a few minutes, contemplating its cracked windows, its charred and dented hull, and the awkward fifty-degree angle at which it’s propped.

Mind made up, you turn to Zebede, who is looking at the thing squatting on the edge of his farm with a mixture of terror, anxiety, and embarrassment.

“Zee, be a darlin’ and go grab a medicull kit from inside, please.”

The small goldblood balks at your words. “whaaat?? but itz—that—it—” he sputters, eyes round as grubcakes. “it could be dangerouzz!!”

“And _theyy _might be injured. We can’t just leave ‘em be.” You explain patiently.

“but— if therez _adultz _in there—they could—they could—” Zebede’s voice lowers furtively, as though the inhabitants of the shuttle might overhear, “_they could do something to us._”

“_Or, _theyy might be some right decent folks who’ll think to show a little courtesyy on account of us helpin’ ‘em.” You point out. “‘Sides, ain’t _theyy_ the ones trespassin’? If anything, yyou’re the one with all the authorityy, here.”

“well…” Zebede falters, at that, brow furrowing. He looks like he’s seriously considering it. “i mean…i _guezz_ so? ive never been in _charge_ of ppl before…”

“Welp, better now than never!” you say, clapping your hands together. “Now, go on and grab that medicull kit while I tryy to get this here door open. We wait anyy longer, and there might not _be_ anyy folks to be in charge of, yy’hear?”

The smaller troll nods enthusiastically, “on it, mizz skylla!” and takes off for the cottage.

The shuttle is tilted in such a way that one of the side doors is pressed into the ground and the other is a good five feet above the ground. Luckily, there’s an emergency hatch on the bottom of the shuttle, which is at eye level. Hitting the button on the flip-open panel right next to it doesn’t seem to do anything, however, so you resort to the old-fashioned way—manual.

Bracing your feet against the ground, you jam your fingertips into the gap where hatch meets hull on either side, and _heave_. About six seconds later, there’s the loud groan of tortured metal, and then the hatch comes right off in your hands. You stagger briefly at the unexpected weight in your arms, but waste no time dumping it on the ground and popping your head into the open hatch to get a gander at the ship’s contents, unable to resist your curiosity.

It takes you a second to get accustomed to the change in perspective, what with everything being tilted and all, but once you do, you’re struck by just how _empty_ it is. The shuttle easily has seating for thirty, maybe fifty with standing room taken into account, but you only see three trolls, all seated near the front of the vehicle.

First, you look over to the pilot’s seat, and are immediately struck by the fact that the troll seated there is _not_, in fact, an adult, but a bronzeblood who can’t be much older than you, if not a tad younger. They’re lolled back in the pilot’s seat, face slack, a pair of cracked goggles dangling off one ear, and would appear to be dead if not for the pained, wheezing breaths that occasionally escape them. For a split second, you think you see something else there—a flash of bright blue— but you blink and just like that, it’s gone.

Sprawled across one of the rows of seats nearest to the front is one—no, _two_ more trolls. The first you spot doesn’t look much older than the bronzeblood. They’re not moving, and you can’t make out much of their face behind a curtain of dyed blue hair, but the little pained noises they’re making suggest they’re still very much alive. Their form is curled protectively around that of another troll; your ganderbulbs slowly trace a path from the shattered viewport behind them to the shards of glass embedded in their shoulders and back, from which thin rivulets of cerulean drip steadily to the leather seats below.

You can’t make out the face or caste sign of the troll the cerulean’s got their arms wrapped around, but you’ve got a gut feeling that they ain’t an adult, either.

Your bloodpusher sinks. Just a bunch of kids, like you. Whatever made them so desperate as to attempt something as crazy as _this_, you don’t know for certain, but the round char marks still smoking on the ship’s hull give you a pretty good idea.

“mizz skylla? i-iz everything okay?!” you hear Zebede call from somewhere nearby. You pop your head out of the hatch and see him stood about three meters off, medicull kit clutched to his chest like a lifeline, a couple dozen bees hovering defensively about him.

“Yyeah, ain’t no adults in here.” you say, patting the hull. “Justa bunch of kids who—"

Wait.

Is that—

The words die on your tongue as you register, faintly, the loud and unmistakable sound of barking.

Damn it all. For all you know, Sonnyy could’ve been barking for five, six, maybe ten minutes now, and it’s only _now_, with the background buzz down to its usual intensity, that you’ve been able to hear him. You could be in any kind of danger right now, and it might just be too late to do anything about it. Worse still, _Sonnyy_ could be in danger.

Wasting no time, you raise a hand to each temple and shut your eyes tight, concentrating on Sonnyy’s frantic yelps. In no time, your psychic communion reaches him, and your thinkpan is instantly flooded with canine panic and alarm. You push these aside and concentrate instead on Sonnyy’s senses, willing him to let you see through his eyes.

The pup immediately obliges, and what feeds into your pan next is a live feed of what Sonnyy’s seeing: the wide-open plain between your farm and Zebede’s, and there, on the horizon, a trio of heavily-spiked, four-limbed shapes, getting closer and closer at an alarming speed.

Drones.

And you’ve got no doubt in the world as to who they’re here for.

You quickly order Sonnyy to get over to the bee farm as fast as he can before closing the connection, opening your eyes to see Zebede still watching you, somehow even more anxious than he was before, if the volume of bees circling around him is any indication. “whatz the matter?”

You take a deep breath and look him right in the eye before saying,

“Yyour place big enough to hide a coupla half-corpses, Zee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all have a great new years' eve!!!


	23. Of Gifts and Good Company, Unconditional

Your name is ZEBR—

Ugh, no, let’s not do this right now. We’ll come back to that later.

You are now THE ALIEN, and boy howdy, it sure has been a confusing couple of hours.

Just when you’d started to think you’d sampled nearly all the kinds of shenanigans this planet had to offer, the universe had, as it does_ so often_, dutifully taken it upon itself to prove you wrong, starting by drop-kicking your whole-ass domicile off the nearest elevated topographical feature. Ever since the happy little accident that was you crash-landing on this planet, it’s like you’ve been sent rolling down a slope, wildly careening and unable to stop, smacking into what feels like every obstacle in all of creation on the way down. Each time you _think_ you’ve hit the bottom— that you can just lie back and _rest_— turns out it’s just another ledge, and you’re mere inches away from another massive drop, one promising yet more dangers and opportunities to wound yourself. And, if your current stock of past experiences have taught you anything, it’ll all be _really_ funny in hindsight.

It keeps happening.

You are beginning to realize that things will never stop from keep happening constantly.

…Okay, part of it is entirely your fault. You _know_ this.

There have been a number of points during your stay here where you could have just…_stopped_ yourself. Where you could have allowed yourself to simply _stay_ on that metaphorical ledge, shutting your eyes to the chasm below. You didn’t _have_ to go any further. You had a _choice_.

…Didn’t you?

Why couldn’t you have just been satisfied with the friendships you’d already made? Why did you so desperately _need_ to make more?

There are times where you look back on how you behaved around your current friends, and you can’t help but feel disgusted. The desperation, the clinginess, the groveling— it’s just disgusting. How could any of these people even _like _you after all that? _You_ barely like you just _remembering_ all that.

Of course, you are, on some level, _glad_ you continued those friendship-making efforts— despite how embarrassing they are— if only because it led you to all of the dearest and most profound personal relationships you currently have in your life, the ones that give you a reason to keep going even when you’re at your absolute lowest. If you’d stopped trying after the first bad incident, you’d probably only be friends with Diemen.

Still, part of you finds itself wishing that the _way_ you formed all those friendships had been more…natural. That you could have met these people and bonded to them without the sticky haze of…for lack of a better word, _addiction_ clouding your senses, debasing you to the point that you shudder to remember how you were back then. 

Come to think of it, how much have you really changed from "back then"? Who’s to say that you’re not going to do it all over again, rolling off the metaphorical ledge to plummet down another hazardous incline, all in the pathetic hopes of being able to add another name to your contact list?

_Ugh. _If there’s one good thing at all about you being up on the cull lists, it’s that you haven’t been given the chance to give into the addiction, what with having to hide your stupid illegal self from the drones.

Anyways. So now you’re here.

In a bathroom. Ablutionblock. Whatever.

Hiding.

Well, you wouldn’t exactly say hiding, per se. Hiding would imply a desire to escape someone, or something, or some general situation containing various someones and somethings. Which shouldn’t apply in your case, because you’re in a hive positively _crammed_ with your friends. Right?

...But that’s just it, isn’t it? You’ve never really actually been around more than one friend at a time. Maybe two, once every so often, but that only ever happens in such instances as A) running into someone else on accident while hanging out with another friend, B) actively auspisticizing, or C) friends being fundamentally inseparable on account of one being the other’s psionic food source.

That last one really only applies to two specific people, but hey, it still counts.

The point is, you’re just not used to all of this. Hanging out with just one friend is so much easier— you just focus all your time and attention and energy on _them_ and how best to keep _them_ happy and entertained. But being around multiple friends, especially when you have so many different dynamics and shared experiences between you and them, it’s just...it got kind of stressful after a while, to be honest. You just couldn’t shake this nervous energy fizzing along your skin, feeling like you had to be everywhere at once, checking in with everybody, making sure they were okay, that they were getting along, that they still liked you, etc, etc.

Which brings you to this exact point, i.e. sat on the cold tiles of one of Galekh’s guest bathrooms, trying to reconcile the spiraling merry-go-round of mistakes that is your life, ignoring the fact that your butt is getting progressively more and more numb with each passing minute.

Man, you really miss your palmhusk right now. Introspective thinking sucks.

A knock on the door. “you okay in there robobuddy; its been a while;”

Oh, it’s Mallek. You’d gotten to see him earlier on the limo ride, but there hadn’t been much of a chance to catch up.

You tell him you’re fine, honestly. Just, uh. Needed a breather?

“you decided to take a breather; in an ablutionblock;”

Hey, dude. It’s not like you can just go for a jolly little stroll out in the garden. You’re a _wanted criminal _now, remember?

“i mean; youre not wrong;” A pause, “mind if i keep you company?;”

Maybe it’s just the door muffling him, but his voice sounds…different, somehow. You can’t quite pinpoint what it is.

Sure, you say.

Another pause.

“you planning on unlocking the door or; are we just gonna talk like this;”

Oh, right. You stand, smoothing out the robe Stelsa lent you, and go to unlock the door. One good look at Mallek is all you need to confirm that something is seriously off with the cerulean. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him this perturbed; there is a palpable tenseness in his posture, and though the smile he offers up when you open the door is familiar enough, but the strange, strained look in his eyes is not.

Your heart sinks. You did this. Poor guy’s probably stressed out, what with the potential threat of _treason_ he’s got for agreeing to help you out of this mess.

Yes, that is definitely the reason. You can’t possibly fathom there being any other reason for him looking at you like that.

You gesture to the ablutionblock and sarcastically welcome him to your humble abode. This seems to break the spell; the cerulean chuckles, and that weird look he’d been giving you vanishes. “thanks bud;” He walks in and lets out a low whistle as he looks around the ablutionblock. “for real tho; this = hella fancy for an ablutiontrap; who even needs this many different kinds of soap;”

For one, _you_ do, you can’t help but tease, wrinkling your nose for emphasis. I’ve _seen _your hive, dude.

“wow; that hurts;” he fake-pouts, putting a hand over his bloodpusher for effect. “i come bearing gifts and this = the treatment i get?;”

Aw, knock it off, man. Your place stinks like cheese and you’d _know_ it if you only bothered to leave the house more often. Wait, gifts? What gifts?

“ohh i dont know about that bud; it = kinda hard to remember all of a sudden; what with all this pain;”

Mallek. Did you get me something?

“sorry; couldnt hear you over the sound of my pump biscuit breaking;”

Dude, come _on._

“never thought id die like this; betrayed and broken-pumped in someones ablutionblock; tell snakedad i always loved him;”

Ugggh, _fine_. Your hive totally doesn’t smell, I’m just a moron, et cetera. Happy now?

He stops theatrically clutching at the front of his hoodie and grins ear-to-ear. “man i cant believe you actually did it; even _i_ know my place = a dump;”

That’s right, I said it. Now hand over the goods.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “aight; here you go;” He reaches around to an old laptop bag he’s got slung over one shoulder, and which, you only now notice, is bulging oddly. From it, he produces what looks to be a wadded-up ball of black fabric. “ah shit; it = all wrinkled; gimme a sec;”

He turns partly away to obscure your view of the object. You watch him struggle to neaten out the whatever-it-is for a good minute before he suddenly freezes, as though having realized something.

Mallek slowly turns back to face you while trying and failing to inconspicuously stuff the object back into the bag. “on second thought; maybe nows not a good time;” he draws out, visibly tense.

Your interest immediately ratchets up from six to eleven. You have_ got_ to know what’s in that bag.

Shifting your weight ever-so-slightly to lean on the balls of your feet, you nod and smile at Mallek in apparent understanding. Yeah man, sounds okay, you’ll just—

An iota of tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and you dart forward and snatch the wad of fabric peeking out of the open bag at this side. The cerulean lets out a yell of surprise and makes an instinctive grab for it, but you’re already scampering backwards, fabric bundle held behind you and out of his reach. You snooze, you lose, buddy!

“cmon dude dont be a—;” He makes another grab, and you leap back, your back colliding with a marble counter as you do so. You waste no time in immediately clambering up onto said counter, using the power of your newly acquired height to hold the mystery gift far above his head. Ha HA! How do you like that?

Mallek just grins up at you. “heh; bold words for someone still in grabbing distance;” and before you can move, reaches up, grabs you by the waist, and attempts to pull you off the counter. You thrash wildly out of pure instinct, and he staggers, sending the two of you tumbling to the floor with a _THUD._

Ouch. Ugh. On second thought, roughhousing so soon after your little _accident_ might not have been the best idea.

When your head stops spinning in such a nauseating fashion, you register the fact that you’re sprawled on top of your friend. You push your torso up a bit to look at him, a stupid joke already on your lips, but your voice cuts off as soon as you see his face. It’s slack and still, and his eyes are shut.

Mallek?

No response.

Mallek?? Oh god, Mallek?! Did he crack his head on the tiles? Has your stupid ass finally gotten someone killed for good? Oh god oh god he really _did_ die in someone else’s ablutionblock, oh god, what on earth are you going to tell snakedad—

Without warning, an eye cracks open. “psyche; gottem;”

Bro what the _fuck_. You smack him in the face without thinking.

“ow;” He says, but he’s laughing, the low, gravelly noise welcome and familiar to your ears, and you can feel yourself smiling in response. “my bad; but forreal tho; whered you learn to steal like that;”

Oh, from Boldir, you say. She was in the limo? Small, weirdly buff, wears a fedora?

“ah;” A dark look crosses his face. “that one;”

You good, man? Do you guys have some kind of beef, or something?

“not really; except for the fact that she _hacked my car_;”

Well, yeah. Because drones. And cameras, you point out. You were there when it happened.

“well yeah; but it was _my_ ride; and a hackers gotta keep their shit airtight; fact that this even happened kinda gets me;”

Is that it? You ask. Because if it’s about your reputation, you really don’t have much to worry about there, dude. Boldir’s not that kind of person. She doesn’t tell anyone _anything_, let alone boast that she got one up on Outglut’s best hacker.

He raises his brows. “you think im outgluts best hacker huh?;”

You take advantage of your proximity to poke him in the cheek and tell him not to get so cocky all of a sudden. After all, you’ve only _been_ in Outglut, doofus.

He smiles, then, not his usual cocky smirk, but something oddly soft and fragile that makes your chest feel weirdly tight all of a sudden. “still means something to me;”

Then, without warning, his eyes go wide with realization, and bright blue floods his face. “uhh; buddy; just wondering; are you uh; wearing anything under that robe;”

Uh, of course you are. Duh.

“oh; um; okay; just making sure;” He says, face still glowing blue.

Belatedly, you realize you’re still half-lying on top of him. Oh, right. Yeah, you can definitely see how that could be pretty weird. Sheepishly, you haul yourself up and off of him to sit cross-legged on the ablutionblock floor. After a moment or so, Mallek does the same. For a second, you think you see a flash of something unexpected cross his face— disappointment? — but just like that it’s gone, his usual snarky demeanor settling firmly into place.

“so;” he begins, clearing his throat, “guess you might as well check out what i got you; seeing as you went to such lengths to grab it;”

You what? Oh, right, the present. You’d forgotten you still had it scrunched in one hand.

You hold the fabric clump in your lap and carefully pull it apart, only to find that it’s not, in fact, a cloth covering for some other object, but an article of clothing. A familiar one, at that.

Oh _fuck yes._

It’s a brand-new hoodie, a spitting image of the one you’d lost in the accident. You run a hand over the familiar cerulean zigzag, almost giddy with excitement. Mallek’s hoodie had easily become one of your favorite articles of clothing, and you’d honestly been missing the _hell_ out of it. Seeing the remains of it in the trashcan of Stelsa and Tyzias’ apartment had been a brutal blow, and you’d had to resist the temptation to pull out the scraps and try and piece them together. Having the hoodie here now, whole and intact and very much real, fills you with nothing but delight. Sure, it might not be the exact same as the old one, but it’s close enough that you honestly don’t give a damn.

Without even thinking about it, you press it close to your face and inhale deeply. It smells of Mallek’s hive, spicy and sharp and tinged with hints of copper and oil, with—yep—the faintest undercurrent of those cheesy snacks he’s always munching on.

You pop your face up, beaming, to thank the cerulean. To your surprise, the troll boy is full-on staring at you, mouth slightly agape, a bright blue flush lighting up his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Aw, beans. Your friend just saw you sniffing a shirt like a total weirdo. He probably thinks you’ve got issues or something. Hiding your embarrassment, you quickly give him a thank-you and hurriedly pull the hoodie over your head, not bothering to remove the robe.

How do I look? You ask, jokingly.

“uh; great; you look great;” blurts out the cerulean, quickly scrambling to his feet. “i just; uh; i gotta go; got some; computer stuff; you take your time;”

Before you can say a word, he flees the ablutionblock, muttering rapidly under his break. The last thing you manage to catch is something that sounds kind of like “97%; abort;” before the door _SLAMS_ shut behind him.

Huh. That was weird.

Well, it’s fine. Probably.

…

You should probably go check on him.

You go over to the ablutionblock door and crack it open to peer out into the hallway.

Things seem to be…kind of okay out there, actually. No sign of Mallek, but you spot some other friends of yours passing in and out of rooms. You actually spot Boldir just a few meters away, talking to Diemen, of all people. She catches your eye and smiles at you as you step out into the hall, but doesn’t draw attention to your reappearance, which you’re more than glad for. If anyone understands the need to be alone and collect one’s thoughts in peace, it’s her.

You can also detect some shouting from a couple doors down that immediately clues you in to the fact that Galekh’s awake. Argh, you _told_ Gor-Gor to text him in advance, but nooo, he just _had_ to surprise him, knowing how much the indigo would hate him for it. Welp, there’s no reasoning with the hatestruck.

A low rumble in your gut sets you off in search of the nutritionblock. As you walk, you spot a couple more of your friends’ antics through open doors: Daraya and Tyzias in the mini-bookhive, conversing over what looks to be an old history book; Daraya breaking off the conversation to try and coax Karako down from the small chandelier he’s dangling from while Lanque records the whole thing on his phone; Stelsa and Bronya sat in the loungeblock, patiently lecturing an increasingly horrified-looking Wanshi and Tirona; Charun gently prying Goatdad away from where he’s gnawing at the hem of Lynera’s skirt, while said jadeblood screams bloody murder at the oblivious lusus. All in all, seems like everyone’s doing just fine.

As you begin to meander down the hall, trying to remember where the nutritionblock is, you’re alerted to a ringing noise, growing steadily louder and louder. You turn the corner and find yourself in the empty foyer. The ringing is close now, and you realize it’s the sound of someone patiently pressing the doorbell over and over again. For a while now, it seems.

Come to think of it, didn’t Tyzias mention that your ashen quadrantmates were on their way over with Tegiri?

After coming to the definite conclusion that no one else is going to answer the door, you walk up and reach for the knob before hesitating. Right, you’re a wanted felon. Better be careful.

Who is it? You call out.

“♥ That you, babe? Fancy meeting you h—♥"

A loud _THWACK_, then silence.

Uh. Zebruh?

You press your ear to the door, trying to make out whatever the hell’s going on out there.

“—didnt have to do THAT, daja—”

“||| Of course I did. He was standing in the way. |||”

“As /oath as I am to commiserate with a degenerate such as you, your impatience is fu//y understandab/e in this instance—”

“||| Why, thank you, Kalbur. Nice to see you can say things that make _sense_ every so often. |||”

“—but was it rea//y necessary to psionica//y f/ing that tro// down a f/ight of stairs?”

“||| Yes. |||”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could say i at least TRIED to write zebruh, but... that would be a lie. 
> 
> we'll get to him eventually. 
> 
> probably.
> 
> maybe.
> 
> possibly.
> 
> hope you guys had a great new year's!


	24. Of Hunger and Hesitation, Denied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grime time

Your name is FOLYKL DARANE, and your moirail is a moron.

Heh, moiron. That’s a good one. Better save it for a special occasion.

But yeah, your moirail is a dumb stupid idiot who doesn’t have even two pan cells to rub together and whose thinkpan is so depressingly empty he _probably_ has to store his psionics in his bulge or something. Gog knows he’d be lost without you. This numbpan doesn’t even _know_ how lucky he is to have you around.

So, because you are _such_ a good moirail, and also because this fool was supposed to get lunch for the both of you like two hours ago, you casually reach down to pull sharply on his hair.

Kuprum shrieks and startles, to your delight, two startled bursts of sparks shooting from the edges of his goggles. “>aaAAH FUCK >WHAT WAS THAT FOR”

“you scream like a little grub” you snicker, unable to resist. After all, he _did_.

“>did not”

“did too”

“>did NOT” One of his hands shoot out to yank the ends of your hair, eliciting an involuntary hiss from you.

“did too” You retaliate by gripping his even tighter.

“>AAAHH OKAY >FINE” he yelps, letting go of your hair. “>there i let go >could you just quit that already >youre so annoying”

You absolutely do _not_ let go, because you’re not a dumbass and therefore know better than to let an exploitation opportunity slide by.

“first admit it”

“>admit what”

“that you screamed just like an itty bitty grub”

“>no way lololol”

“say it”

“>I s2g fol >one of these days im gonna dump your greasy ass in a public incinerator”

“say it”

“>ow ok fine >i kinda sorta maybe scream like a grub >(not) >you happy now?”

“_and_ say that we can get pizza now” you gleefully add.

He grumbles out a “>fine” and you release him.

“>uuuggghh is that it >srsly > why didnt you just say you were hungry b4” Kuprum gripes, rubbing his scalp.

“i _did_ say it” you say, because you did, “like a million gazillion times already are your aural receptors broken or something”

“>whatever >lets just take care of one more >then pizza” Kuprum pauses, then, and from up on your perch you sense something in his body language shift, a slight readjustment to his stance so that the weight of the battery pack— and, by extension, you— is more stably distributed across his back and shoulders. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, with an undertone of softness so strange and foreign to that usual, grating voice of his that you’d be surprised if it didn’t chafe.

“>you ok fol? >like >you need any psi sparks or smth”

“didnt you just hear me moron i said i was _hungry _not uncharged” you say, quickly. “lets just find that last scout already”

“>whatever cranky” huffs Kuprum, though he sounds unconvinced. The telltale sounds of rapid-fire typing on a palmhusk indicates, to your relief, that he’s returned to his previous task, i.e. tracking down the last of the scouting bots patrolling the area.

The scouts had shown up barely an hour after the alien’s culling priority had shot up, obnoxious, chittering spherical bots about the size of hoopballs, hovering around interrogating random passers-by on the whereabouts of an extraterrestrial invader. Your favorite alien dweeb, no doubt.

You and Kup had been _delighted. _Scout drones are even stupider than regular drones, and therefore twice as fun to mess with. Plus, it only takes, like, half a psionic spark to break one, but that’s boring.

The most recent encounter had been on Pustule Street, where the two of you had just gone up to it and tried to convince it that four plus two equals 420. Idiot bot actually started smoking and sparking before Kup put it out of its misery.

Unfortunately, all good things must end, and in this case, the two of you are all out of bots to mess with. You honestly just want to go eat bad food until you puke, but Kup keeps _insisting_ there’s one more ‘bot in the area, and he wants to actually try and hack it this time. Well, whatever. It’s clear his pride is still wounded from having burned out two husktops on the same hacking job earlier. That’ll _definitely_ be something to jam about later at home. But for now, you’re just chilling on your perch while your moirail tries feverishly to hack the little bot trying doggedly to interrogate a pair of trolls out on the sidewalk near the alley you’re in.

Already you’re regretting not taking up Kup’s offer for more psionic fuel. You can feel the telltale signs of hunger, not in your acid tract (although that’s hungry too) but in your flesh and bones, a heavy, painful cold that stabs into your skin to seep down, down, down until it reaches the marrow. It takes everything in you not to shiver, and you have to grit your teeth against the sensation, the click and slide of fangs distracting you from the chill. The spaces where your eyes would be throb with phantom pain.

It would be so easy to just tell Kuprum you need energy. Easy, except that you already drained him earlier today, and telling him you need more would require you to have a conversation you aren’t prepared for. Not yet. Possibly not ever, preferably.

Your voidrot is getting worse.

You’d tried to deny it to yourself, for a while. Tried to tell yourself that the longer blackouts and the shorter amounts of time you managed to keep yourself awake after feeding off Kuprum were just a seasonal thing, and that you’d be back to normal soon enough. Just had to wait it out.

You waited it out for wipes. Then a perigee. Then two perigees, then three, then six, and then finally, with half a sweep gone and the hunger showing no signs of abating, you decided to quit the denial act and face the facts. You were dying. Which wasn’t unusual, for you, except you were dying _faster_, requiring more and more psionic energy to keep you awake. You could—and still can— practically _feel_ the malignant coils of rot curling and furrowing into the very core of your flimsy, rotten being. Where once you felt hunger like a second stomach was now more akin to a chasm, its edges steadily crumbling inward, night by night, day by day.

None of this was a problem. Not at first.

Kuprum noticed, of course—how could he _not?_ —but he’d (like you had, at first) thought it was just a touch of the seasonal plague making you weaker. So he started feeding you more, and you devoured every spark like it was your last, with little restraint. After all, the guy’s a _pretty_ strong psionic. He could take it. Right? Right.

Except.

Except for that _one_ summer night when your moirail collapsed on the pavement, skin cold beneath your palms.

Those four hours you spent huddled at his side— after dragging him back to your shared apartment hive—were the longest of your life. During those four hours, holding each of Kuprum’s wrists in your own, counting each fluttering beat of his pulse, terrified that the next would be his last, you made a decision.

A wipe later, you told your moirail you’d gotten over whatever temporary illness you had and that you wouldn’t need so much excess psionic energy from then on. To this day, a couple perigees later, you still aren’t sure whether he believes you. He certainly seems to be finding more and more useless ways to use his psionics on a day-to-day basis, subsequently throwing out a ton of extra sparks for you absorb. Then again, that might just be puberty. You’ve heard it does stupid things to troll boys in particular.

In any case, you’ve placed yourself firmly on a psionic diet. And if the bottomless void inside you wants to be _cranky_ about it, boo-hoo. It’ll just have to put up with regular greasy food like the rest of you. Or, it _would_ be doing that, _if_ your idiot moirail could actually bother to buy you some.

Your aural receptors pick up twin shouts of alarm from the street, followed by a triumphant whoop from Kuprum. “>hell yeah >still got it”

“what did you make it do”

“>nothin much” You can practically _hear_ the ear-to-ear grin he’s got on. “>just made the scout bot chase those randos down the street >yelling “YOU” over and over again lololol”

That makes you crack up, all right. “what else is it going to do”

“>nothing too fancy >itll just keep doing that until it dies” he chuckles. A _ding_ from his husk, and then, “>oh shit”, following by rapid-fire typing once more.

“what ?” you say after a good minute or so, craning down to tug on your moirail’s hair again.

“>adalov finally texted me back” He sounds like he’s trying to be casual about it, but your idiot moirail is about as subtle as a hive on fire. It’s kind of cute but, also, just _really_ annoying.

“oh you haaaaaate him dont you” you tease, poking him in the cheek. “cmoooon just admit it”

He stops typing for a second, before scoffing “>whatever >maybe >none of your business”

“its literally my business”

“>okay fine >but like >dont be weird about it >were not in spades or anything yet”

“yeah because youre both cowards”

“>are not”

“are too”

“>are not”

“are too”

“>dragging out sentences doesnt make you right”

“no but your cowardice does” you point out, rightfully. Seriously, you don’t get why people don’t just _say_ what they mean. Life’s too short to be choking yourself on your own tongue, especially when there are _far_ better things you could be using it for instead.

For all your partner’s big talk, you know exactly which of the two of you knows how to get things _done._ If your voidrot keeps going at the rate it’s at now, you’re sure as fuck going to use that leftover time to its greatest potential. Which mostly means epic pranks, but also, doing what you can to make your moirail’s life easier.

Whether he likes it or not.

“you should tell him” you repeat, seriously this time. “about time you found someone else to argue with. im tired of dealing with your stupid arguments let someone else have a turn for once”

“…>what if he doesnt hate me back?”

Uggghh. _Moiron_. You pap-slap him, twice, one on each cheek.

“shoosh it doofus literally how could anyone _not_ hate you” you say, “even _ive_ gotten pitchfeels for you ” You state, yawning. It’s starting to feel like naptime.

“>my moirail was pitch for me? >bruh moment”

“dont flatter yourself” you mutter. Your eyelids are beginning to feel heavier, now, and you find yourself leaning more heavily on the battery pack. “you might be annoying but youre still a pitiful disaster of a troll to me ”

“>thats so sappy LOLOLOL >how come you only get like this when youre about to pass out” he laughs, reaching up to muss your hair. You immediately go to nip on his hand, of course, but it’s more of a half-hearted nibble than a proper bite. He yelps nonetheless, to your satisfaction. Yeah, you still got it.

You half-doze for a while atop your perch as Kuprum starts walking again, the familiar motions of his steps lulling you into a light nap. These little naps are a daily occurrence, for you. Unlike what Kup calls “blackout mode”, they don’t necessarily indicate a need for psionic energy so much as they do the effort of making your greasy carcass of a body even stay upright. Which you don’t even _have_ _to do_, most of the time, given that you ride around on a battery pack. And yet, the fucking disease seems to delight in knocking you out regardless. It’s like a daily reminder from the voidrot that you’re supposed to be dead.

As far as pranks go, it’s pretty lame. You of all people would know that.

You’re woken by the familiar _cre-ak_ of the door to your shared hive. The next thing you register is a pair of familiar hands carefully sliding you off the battery pack and into a pile, which you immediately burrow into. There’s a soft _thwump _and a shift in the pile, followed by some more typing noises.

“ pizza ?” you mumble.

“>hacked a delivery bot ten minutes ago LOL”

“ you tell the snakeboy you hate him yet? ”

A pause, and then: “>no”

“ dooo iiiit”

“>im _trying_ to play it cool >and not just blurt it out >unlike you”

“remind me which of us has two quadrants filled again”

“>oh fuck off”

“nope” you cackle, knowing you’ve won this round.

There’s a knock on the door, thank fucking _Gog_. You’re absolutely starving. You scramble off the pile and make for the door as fast as you can with the chill of rot still clinging to your bones and wrench it open.

The smell that hits your cartilaginous nub is not, unfortunately, one of melted cheese, nor of grease or fat. It’s a smell like soap and antiseptic, with a light woodsy undercurrent that can only be—

“Hello, Folykl. -u- ”

—your matesprit.

You waste no time in launching yourself at her with a loud whoop of delight, throwing your arms around her neck and burying your face in the warm space between her neck and shoulder. “i thought you werent coming over til later”

She chuckles, a low, lovely sound you can feel reverberate beneath your cheek. She puts her own arms around your waist, easily supporting you. Gog, this woman is tall.

“It’s a long story -_-” she replies. “Most of it involving a little mutual friend of ours, as per usual -_-”

Before you can ask for details—and invite her in for pizza—a long shriek pierces the air.

_“what iiin the HELL iiis that!?”_

You automatically turn your head in the direction of the sound, which seems to have been elicited form someone standing just a few feet behind Marsti in the hallway. You get a whiff of perfume, anger, and fear. The rustle of heavy silk and the sheer heaviness of the perfume give you a good idea of what kind of troll you’re dealing with.

What’s Marsti doing with a highblood? Around _these_ parts, no less.

The strange troll is babbling now, a high pitched stream of “oh gog oh gog what _iiis_ iiit— houtek why are lettiiing iiit _touch _you, oh gog, what iiif iiit’s _contagiiious, _houtek we need to get out of here _riiight _now, oh my gog _iiit’s lookiiing RIIIGHT AT ME—”_

You grin in their direction and are thrilled to hear them immediately shriek in response. Wow, ok, you are _definitely_ going to prank the hell out of this troll later.

“wow rude” you scoff, turning back to nuzzle your matesprit’s face. “whats her deal”

Marsti sighs and pecks you on the cheek, once, and mutters “I’ll deal with this -_-” before carefully extricating herself from your arms. You hear her approach the other troll, slowly, cautiously.

“Miss Carmia. Miss Ca— _Ardata. _Ardata, look at me. -_-” you hear Marsti say, her tone low and rumbly and soothing in a way that sends a funny little tingle down your posture pole. Are they…

“_Shush_, now. It’s okay. This is my _matesprit_. She won’t hurt you, alright? -_-”

_Hoo, _yeah, they totally are.

Well, this is certainly an unexpected turn of events. If you’d known your matesprit had wanted to do a pale double date, you would’ve told Kuprum build a bigger pile. Well, guess you’ll all just have to make do with what’s already there.

Hmm. You wonder whether all those socks that you tossed on the pile— after trying and failing to find the matching one in the pair— are still somewhere in there.

…Probably, right? Huh. Well, it’s not like they’re gonna smell _too_ bad or anything, considering no one’s been wearing them lately.

Meh.

Your attention is torn abruptly from the explicit shooshpapping happening right in front of you at the sound of yet another shriek, this time from inside your apartment hive. You immediately scuttle back in, claws and fangs at the ready. “what ?!”

No response. You feel your way over to the pile to find your moirail curled in on himself.

“what happened ”

He mutters something into the nearest sock.

“dude speak up ”

He repeats himself, louder this time. “>sent him a spade emoji”

“so ?”

“>… >so like >thats lame rite”

It’s just like you said. Your moirail is a moron.

You wriggle closer to where he’s lying in the fetal position and snake your arms around his waist, so that you’re cuddling with his back against your front, your head resting on his shoulder, and whisper softly into his ear.

“yeah”

A surprised laugh escaped him. “>srsly >thats it? >u suck”

“no u”

“>if one more person says that today imma srsly lose it”

“whatever scrub” you snort, reaching over to lazily pap him right on the nose. “how much pizza did you order”

“>idk >whatever amount that delivery drone was carrying b4 i hacked it >why?”

“were having guests over”

“>your matesprit?”

“yeah and her palemate probably”

“>probably?”

“depends on whether or not the moirail has a stroke after seeing the apartment”

“>LOLOLOL >more pizza for us then”

* * *

Your name is CHIXIE ROIXMR and you regret every single decision you have ever made to bring you to this exact point in your life.

On the far side of the ring prowls your opponent (and killer, no doubt), a troll almost twice your height and about five times your muscle mass, their heavily scarred face locked into a fearsome grimace. They snarl when they catch you staring, and you instinctively flinch away. As you do so, your spine comes into contact with one of the thick iron bars of the cage encircling the fighting ring.

How did you even get _into _this mess? All you signed up for was a gym course, not a deathmatch. You’re not sure which is louder at this point, the knocking of your knees, the chattering of your teeth, or the wild galloping of your pumpbiscuit.

You furtively peek over your shoulder at your gym trainer. She’s seeing this, right? _Surely_ she realizes what an idiotic idea this was. Then she’ll have a little word with the announcer or ref or _whoever’s_ in charge of this sweatfest, clear up this whole misunderstanding, and—

Your trainer meets your eye. She gives you a huge, proud grin and a thumbs-up.

“[()] YOU GOT THIS, SISTER!” she bellows, pounding her fists together. “[()] RIP THEIR FACE OFF!”

Yup. You’re doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marsti houtek just keeps falling for messy women and i just keep letting it happen


	25. Of Compromises

Your name is REMELE NAMAAQ, and you are doing just fine.

Absolutely. _Positively_. Never been better.

The fact that there is a gaping void where your life’s work should be is just. Well. It’s.

It’s nothing. Probably. There’s no way any of this is happening right now. Not to _you. _The website is…just a little slow today, probably. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself, clinging to the words like a mantra as you shakily move the cursor to refresh the page. (Again.)

Eighth time’s the charm, right?

The web page obediently refreshes at your command. And then…nothing. Just a flat white screen. Three of your pupils shoot to up to the url, willing it to be something else, but no dice—it’s _your _site, all right.

Only there’s _nothing there_.

With a huff of frustration, you open a new tab to Goregle. The site loads in the blink of an eye, dashing your fleeting theory that the issue might have to do with the wi-fi in your hive. You spend a good twenty minutes searching up “website screen gone white” and messing around with settings on your husktop, to no avail— no matter what you try, the site that once hosted your webcomic refuses to yield, stubbornly throwing out a glaring white screen and nothing more. Hell, even the mobile version is down.

Irritation pricks at your nerves. What the _fuque_ is going on with your site? It’s never done this before; you’d definitely remember that. And yes, okay, website coding isn’t really your forte (online art theft doesn’t tend to require more than right-click => copy image), but you’re _definitely_ not incompetent enough to screw up basic troubleshooting processes. So why are none of them working?

At this rate, you’ll have to post the new panels a _day_ late. Which wouldn’t normally be a big deal, except that it’s _today._ The anniversary of the day your webcomic started. The _special _day. Your legions of fans have been buzzing about this upd8 on Chittr and Scumblr for _weeks _now. _Weeks! _Who are you to disappoint them, today of all days?

You switch over to the website and refresh it again. Still nothing, just a field of white, mocking you with its blankness. _Ugh._

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. Lucky for you, you’ve got a hatchmate who knows a thing or two about husktop problems. Not to mention, he _had_ helped you tweak this particular website in the past, back when you posted the very first flash animation and the whole site came crashing down.

Oh, how far you’ve come since then. And yet, in some ways, infuriatingly, not much has changed.

savantGarde [SG] began trolling snakeBytes [SB] at 10:38HRS

SG: What do you know about websites going totally white and not responding?  
SG: I can’t access my webcomic site at all.  
SG: It’s most perplexing. It’s never done this before, and nothing suggested by the internet seems to be doing it any goode.  
SG: Also.  
SG: I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubte and assume this isn’t a pranque of yours.  
SG: I _know_ you value that precious little thinkpan of yours too much to risk having it bashed in by moi.  
SG: Don’t you, Mallek?

snakeBytes [SB] is idle!

SG: Ah, well, isn’t this just perfecte.  
SG: Who coulde have guessed that the one time you actually happen to be offline is the one time I actually need you _not _to be?  
SG: Did your old snake finally manage to convince you to take a respite for once?  
SG: If so, goode for him.  
SG: …  
SG: Well, message me bacque soon. If you get it back up by the end of the night I’ll let you commission something at half price. But no less!

savantGarde [SG] ceased trolling snakeBytes [SB]

With some resignation, you decide to just post the upd8 on the official Scumblr blog. It’s not like you wouldn’t have done it anyways—you post up8s there as well as the official site—but the official site tends to get more traffic, so you’ll just have to notify the fans via Chittr. _Sigh_. What a shame. You’d been looking so forward to—

The Scumblr appears as a blank white page.

You blink once, slowly, drinking in the sight with all five pupils.

You refresh the page.

Your refresh it again.

You refresh it a few more times, stand from your desk, walk purposefully to the downstairs floor of your hive, unplug the wi-fi router, plug it back in, wait for the light to turn blue, walk back upstairs, and refresh the page.

The screen glows white from top to bottom, save for the search bar at the top, from which the site’s perfectly spelled url winks at you mockingly. You stare, thinkpan numb with shock.

At this point you’re more or less certain of what’s going on. This is an _attack_—not just on your art, but on _you_, as an artist. Clearly, this is the work of a rival artist, one you’ve stol—_taken inspiration from_ in the past, seeking to destroy your life’s work by wiping it off the net for good.

Hah! Too bad for them. It’ll take more than _this_ to take you down. You’ve gone up against more lawsuits than you can count on your prongs, and you’ve never lost once.

Well, alright, there was that one speeding ticket, but it hardly counts.

The point is: this? _This_ debacle of a plot? _Pathetique._ The work of envious, spineless worms, surely, jealous of how “your” art has been making waves among the highblood elite. Come to think of it, you _had_ been rather…brash during that last gallery interview for the Thrashthrust Wipely. Could that have been the catalyst? Some lesser artiste, seizing the opportunity for coup d’etat?

You chuckle to yourself at the thought. The _nerve_! The audacity! You’re almost impressed.

Unfortunately for _them_, whoever they may be—you don’t have a name in mind, but you _do_ have a list, one you very much intend on perusing later— you keep _all_ of your art, including that which makes up your webcomic, backed up on multiple drives and USBs.

The white glow is beginning to exert an uncomfortable pressure on your ganderbulbs, so you quickly close the tab. It takes you a good couple minutes to find your main USB, all the while your panic heightens more than you’d care to admit. It dissipates quickly, however, as your prongs close around a smooth, familiar shape in your pencil holder.

You take a moment regard the device with fondness and satisfaction. The scorpion shape puts you in mind of your lusus, only your lusus isn’t blue and is also roughly eleven times the size of the USB. Still, it was a lovely present from a friend.

You wonder, vaguely, how the alien is doing. After all, they _did_ seem to have quite the aptitude for landing themselves in trouble, usually in aid of others. It perplexes you, frankly. One would think a being such as _them_, one whose very existence dooms them, would be more focused on the bigger picture. Playing the long game, so to speak, the goal of the game being survival. When you’re playing with those kinds of stakes, you can’t really afford to look out for anyone but yourself.

Strangely, the alien never seems to see things that way. Paradoxically, it’s _others_ they seem to concern themselves with, more than anything else, up to and including their own safety. And for…what, exactly? A smile? A tender moment or two? A couple of hours spent in the company of another?

It’s a curious existence they lead, that’s for sure.

You plug in the USB and wait patiently for your husktop to realize its presence. When it does, a folder icon appears, and you click on it without hesitation.

You barely register the sight before you—another blank page, wiped clean and sparkling—before that _light_ assaults your senses. If you’d thought it was a bit aggressive before, it’s nothing compared to now. It’s not so much a glow as it is a wave; it envelopes you before you can say a word, let alone scream.

It _hurts_. The light seems to pierce every part of your being and strobes in pulsating, nauseating waves, each threatening to pull you apart. You can feel it pressing against your ganderbulbs, forcing them wide open until all you can see is the piercing, shining field of white. It sparks and it stings and sears and scores and then it _speaks._

Consider this your final warning, my dear, it says.

Every word is an agony. You need it to _stop_, and _now._

Though I generally find plagiarism relatively inoffensive in the grand scheme of things—a mindset I’m sure _you’ll_ approve of—I’m afraid that I will have to arrange a little intervention of sorts,  it continues blithely. Now, I’m not exactly sure of _how_ you managed to access this particular webcomic— although I _very_ much intend to find out— but I simply must ask that you cease using it as “inspiration”.  A note of derision stabs into you at those last words.

Though your work is merely derivative, I would rather not risk any threats to the stability of canon as it currently exists.  It chuckles, a noise that grates against you like fingernails scraping against felt. Stability. Oh, that’s a good one. 

It turns its full attention to you, then, and you feel infinitely small.

Now, will you do as I say?  It says. I don’t want to have to punish you like I did the other one. Normally I _would_, but I have such a terrible weakness for spunky little girls like you. 

Revulsion ripples through your incorporeal body. If you could feel your limbs, you’d be beating the source of the voice until you could hear its intangible bones break.

But you can’t do that. All you can do is listen and wait for the _thing_ to finish. And, now that it has, you realize this: it’s waiting for an answer.

What can you say? Or do? If you agree, that means…what, giving up on your webcomic? The one that, yes, okay, _fine_, you _may_ have gotten ideas for from another source, but…it’s still very much yours. In fact, it probably contains the least plagiarism- yes, fine, you admitted it- out of all the artistic works you’ve ever produced. What’s more, you _could_ still continue it. Even if this creepy fuquehead has wiped all the evidence of it off the interweb as well as your backups, you still remember enough that you could recreate it.

Except that doesn’t exactly seem like an option, what with this voice threatening you to either give up your sweeps-long project, _or,_ be subject to some kind of “punishment”.

Well? The voice inquires. I may be immortal but I haven’t got all day. 

You think about it.

You think about it some more.

Then, holding the scraps of yourself together with as much will as you can muster, you tell it your answer.

Wonderful, the voice croons, and every fiber of your being crawls. Just wonderful. Although… 

Your entire being freezes, then, brittle and still, and you can’t move you can’t _move you can’t MOVE_—

Perhaps a few changes, just in case, it muses. Not as drastic as the gravedigger, but, well… a few tweaks wouldn’t hurt to keep things running smoothly. 

* * *

Your name is AMISIA ERDEHN, and you’re extremely hungry.

“chahuut, can we go to GrubDonald’s™?”

“what * that bougie purpleblood joint? *|” inquires the olive girl, who’s still kind of awkwardly hanging around. “do we really have time for that * shouldn’t we be finding my moirail? *|” Tension radiates from her every pore.

Chahut looks to her, then to you, then to her again, and says, definitively: “we’ll geT Takeaway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things getting hectic, so I will not be updating this fic next weekend. hope y'all are doing okay!


	26. Of Darkness, Literal and Otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tossing this one in a couple days early to give myself a week and a half for the next one. thanks for waiting!

Your name is CIRAVA HERMOD and tbh? You’d thought death would be more comfortable than this.

Not in the sense of there being, like… an afterlife or something? You don’t really put stock into that kind of clowny fluff. Sure, the murder circus aesthetic holds _some_ appeal, palette-wise, but it’s not your thing. Plus, going to some Other Place after death _would _mean you’d eventually have to deal with your haters, and you’re pretty well satisfied just knowing them as anons. Perhaps even less, if you’re being honest.

Yeah, no, yikes. If afterlife means irl talk, you’d rather just _not_ with that. On the other hand, an infinite, all-encompassing darkness, quenching your raw and abused thinkpan in soft emptiness? _That’s _the stuff. You can def vibe with that. It’s no psychedelic dreamscape, but hey, respite is respite. Drugs can only blur out so much before the lulling clouds dissipate and you have to drag yourself back to reality, back to the migraines and the loneliness and the special kind of hell that is the comments section of your streams.

Soporsleep isn’t much better; it helps with the migraines, sure, but the hollowed-out feeling that resounds in your thinkpan and thorax stubbornly persists even when you’re horn-deep in slime. So then you end up crawling out of the ‘coon cuz you feel bad and then when you’re up you feel even worse and then you go back to sleep and it’s worse still, so you smoke your pan to a kaleidoscopic oblivion and everything is okay for just a little while and then you come crashing down and it feels even worse than _that_, so you pass out for a little while and wake up and find that you missed a stream and now everyone hates you, platonically, and so you get high again and stream for twelve hours until your pan feels like it’s splitting and it takes every ounce of effort in your shitty body to drag yourself back into the recuperacoon and pass out. Again.

It’s hard, being a canceled lowblood streamer. It’s hard and nobody understands.

And, as it turns out, death doesn’t feel much better.

It’s all dark, for one thing, which is a good start. Other than that, however, the experience is _disappointingly_ familiar: an ache down to your bones, pan sparking painfully, and a horrible taste in your mouth like you fell asleep with your bug-bong still in it. (Again.) As you slowly begin to take in these sensations, you become aware of the fact that there is a very hard surface beneath your back and head.

Oh. Oh, this is a little _too_ familiar.

You suddenly and unintentionally find yourself revisiting the night on which the final act of The Incident took place. It all sort of blurs together, but you’ll never forget how it felt as you lay on the floor of your respiteblock for hours and hours before you could move, too weak to call for your lusus, unable to focus on anything but the sound of your breathing, ragged and too-loud in your aural receptors, the glowing red dot of the webcam just visible out of the corner of your eye—

You jerk yourself back to reality with a gasp, the sound unexpectedly loud in the dark space. As you struggle to take deep breaths and calm yourself down, you notice something above you in the darkness—a dark green splotch, roughly circular in shape. It stands out starkly against the darkness.

You squint up at it, blinking a few times to be sure. Oddly, the light wavers and shifts to follow you when you move your head. Realization hits you like a bolt of lightning—it’s the light cast from your remaining eye, reflecting faintly off some kind of surface. A ceiling?

You sit up, very slowly, wincing at the pain in your limbs. Surprisingly, none are broken, though you’ll _definitely_ need to keep your face out of streams for a while if the aches are anything to go by. You look up again and yep, it’s definitely a bit brighter now. You half-close your eye and open it again, just in case, and sure enough, the patch of light changes shape. It seems a whole lot like there’s some kind of low ceiling a little way above you.

…Death wouldn’t have ceilings, would it?

Huh.

“fuck” you say aloud. “im not dead”

“…what?” a voice croaks from somewhere extremely close by.

You yelp out another “FUCK” and flinch away from the mystery person out of pure instinct. You don’t get far before you smack right into an unseen wall, sending an explosion of pain down your bruised posture pole and eliciting an involuntary hiss.

“hoLy shit” the unseen presence comments, in a half-amused, half-concerned tone that seems oddly familiar. “you okay?”

You whip your head in the direction of the voice, keeping your one eye as wide as it can go. The faint neon glow falls upon a familiar face just a few feet away. In the light of your eye, her choppy hair looks aquamarine, but you know from memory it’s something closer to cerulean.

The other troll is slumped against the same wall you’re now curled against. Her eyes are half-lidded and a little dazed, and her face is lined heavily with pain and exhaustion, the greenish light serving only to enhance its sickly pallor. She looks almost nothing like the bold, fierce punk who more or less single-handedly broke the two of you out of the Thrashthrust Municipal Disciplincineration Center just a few hours ago.

_Was_ it a few hours ago? You’re not sure.

“u look like shit lmao” you say, eventually.

She barks out a laugh. “ya think?” she grins. “damn, hadn’t noticed, psii-clops”

You snort at that, despite yourself. Must be your pan going funny from all the…the…

…What happened, again?

“so like…” you drag out, relaxing a little so that you’re half-propped against the wall like her, “whats the sitch were in”

She shrugs and then immediately winces in pain, letting out a soft gasp, one hand shooting up to clutch at the opposite shoulder. You freeze, unsure of how to handle this. Cautiously, you edge a little closer to the ceruleanblood, your eye illuminating more of her as you do so. This close- about a foot away- you see that the tank top bearing her sign is missing, and that she’s now wearing an unfamiliar flannel button-down that’s far too large for her. The shirt is open at the front, and you can see that most of her thorax has been tightly wrapped in broad white strips of cloth. In the dim light, you can just make out a dark stain seeping through the bandages at her side.

“u ok?” you ask, uselessly, because you have no clue as to how you’re supposed to help her.

She takes a deep breath in and out through her nub and grits out a “yeah”, though her eyes are still squeezed shut in pain. “i think i just—my back reaLLy hurts, i think it got sLashed up in the crash” she grumbles.

The ship crashed? You don’t remember much past the drones starting to gain on the shuttle, but it’s starting to come back, in bits and fragments—metal screeching, warning lights flashing, a quick glimpse of a massive, spiked figure through the rear viewport. You shudder, shaking away the afterimages to look at the wan face of the troll beside you.

“what happened to the pilot?” you manage to rasp out.

The ceruleanblood gingerly raises an arm and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. In the dim light cast by your green eye, you can just make out a dark form sprawled on the floor. He isn’t moving.

A cold trickle of dread crawls up your posture pole. “is he…”

“nah” she says. “checked his pumpbeat a coupLe minutes ago, he’s just super out of it. proLonged pan controL tends to be exhausting for everyone invoLved” she explains, yawning as she does so. “he’s bandaged up, too”

She points to her own bandaged thorax before continuing, “idk who did this, but this-“ she gestures vaguely to the close, dark space that surrounds your huddled forms- “-sure as shit isn’t an imperiaL ceLL, otherwise we’d stiLL be bLeeding out”

You nod in silent agreement. As far as the empire is concerned, bluey and bronzey are traitors, and you’re about as valuable as a pidgeon lusus dropping. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that the three of you are on the floor of a dark room with no sign of a host. Or…anything, really.

You squint around at your surroundings, but the faint glow emanated from your one good eye isn’t powerful enough to illuminate more than a couple feet in each direction. Without thinking, you automatically reach for more psionic energy.

What _should _have happened was absolutely nothing. But then, for a half-second, your eye flares brightly, and tiny sparks of light wink into existence all around you; they illuminate the shape of a small, windowless room hewed from stone, with a small flight of stairs on the far end leading up to a closed door. The green glow illuminates the crumpled shape of the bronzeblood pilot you kidnapped, whose arm is bound in a splint, and the ceruleanblood, who stares at you, openmouthed, undisguised wonder in her eyes.

Above you, the light glints off dozens upon dozens of glass jars, neatly arranged on layered shelves that line the walls of the room. Every single one of them is full of… _something_. Something dark. You can’t quite make out—

The moment passes, and a wave of searing, blistering pain slams into your pan. You black out immediately.

When you come to, not much has changed, only now you have a migraine. Wonderful. Also, your head is in someone’s lap and _wow_, _okay_, this is something different.

“hrngh” you say, eloquently. You feel the person above you startle at the sound.

“hoLy _fucking_ shit” you hear the ceruleanblood troll say, which, yeah, seems a pretty suitable response for the shit you just pulled on her and also yourself. She leans down to look at you, the now-dimmed glow of your green eye catching on the planes of her face as she does so. Worry and concern etch her brow—which kinda sorta maybe makes your bloodpusher do a flippy thing but hey who knows you could just be having a stroke—but they’re quickly replaced by flat irritation.

“the heLL was that?” she demands. “i thought you didn’t have psionics”

You shrug the best you can while lying prone. It’s not like you _forgot_ you can’t do psionic shit anymore. It’s not like you don’t get anons reminding you of _that_ little detail on a nightly basis. You honestly hadn’t even meant to try and activate them. It just…happened. Maybe it was the uncertainty or the pain or the fear or the dark or some awful fucking combination of everything that’s happened to you in the last night or, maybe, you’re just well and truly broken. Wouldn’t surprise you at this point, tbh.

“yea i don’t have any” you mumble. “just…idk dude, its a weird time lmao”

“ya think?” she snarks, but there’s no real venom in it. “we’re in a Locked room fuLL of nothing but mystery jars, and neither of us know how we got here-” she looks thoughtful for a moment- “which admittedLy isn’t the first time i've been in those exact circumstances, but stiLL, weird”

“dam u wild lmao” you comment.

She chuckles. It’s a nice sound.

A small detail in what she’d said suddenly pierces the migraine-induced haze. “yo hold up the doors locked?”

“fuck if i know, _i_ can’t get up” states the ceruleanblood. “it just fits the creepy vibe so i assumed it was”

Well, that checks out. Not like _you _can go check right now, considering you can’t even shift your neck without wanting to scream a whole lot.

“was it locked the last time u ended up like this?” you ask anyways.

“probabLy? i just kicked it down without checking, tbh” she admits. Another laugh escapes you, which doesn’t help the pan situation you’re still having but hey, it’s not really making it worse, either.

“what do u think happens now?” you ask, the gravity of the situation beginning to sink in. “cant go back to our hives…cant run from the drones…cant escape the planet…” You trail off before you catch yourself saying something like “_guess we just die now lmao”_.

The cerulean seems to sense the unspoken words regardless. When she speaks again, her voice is firm and steely.

“run” she states, simply. “i'LL run as far as i need to, as Long as i need to, untiL i find somewhere they don’t know my face” Her face takes on a look of grim determination. “and if they do, whatever, i’LL change my name, face, sign, anything i need to”

Is that how she’s been living up to now? You recall her saying something like that earlier, but…damn. That’s…really, really pitiful, actually. Here you’d thought _you _were lonely. At least people still knew who you were.

“…sounds hella lonely” you say, quietly. You hear the ceruleanblood sigh. “yeah, but it’s better than dying” she remarks.

For a moment, you consider asking her to take you with her. She hadn’t really _corrected_ you when you’d said “we” earlier, after all, and you sure as hell don’t have anywhere to go. Maybe you could start a new channel along the way, make some money to help fund the travel and compensate her for the trouble?

Aw, who are you kidding. You’d just be dead weight. You’re better off here, in Outglut, where at least the folks in your neighborhood know you well enough not to turn you in for culling. It’s not much, but it’s something, and you tagging along with the ceruleanblood will probably just bring more trouble for the both of you.

“huh” you say, instead. “brb im gonna close my eyes and try to not have this migraine rn”

You proceed to do just that. As the migraine steadily hammers red-hot nails into your forehead, you close your eyes and try to focus on the sound of your breathing.

It _hurts,_ worse than any you’ve had in the last couple sweeps following The Incident, and you want it—_need_ it—to stop. But it doesn’t, _of course_ it doesn’t, it just goes on and on and every second is worse than the next. Your thinkpan pulses with a vicious sharpness that slices your thoughts to fragments and stabs you with them, over and over and over and you can do nothing but suffer it.

What feels like hours later but is probably just minutes, you become faintly aware of someone running their fingers gently through your hair. Blindly, you lean into the sensations, aching for something other than the pulsing throb of your skull.

For a split second, you feel the hand disappear, and the despair that fills your pain-drunk mind is like nothing you’ve ever known.

Then it’s back, only now you feel fingertips pressing light circles into your scalp. The flickering sparks within your pan seem to dissipate beneath that careful touch. It’s wonderful. You have no idea of what is going on but you sure as _hell_ are into it.

You manage to crack your one good eye open just a smidge so you can gaze up at the other troll. She seems to be totally absorbed in whatever magic she’s working on your skull, her expression one of calm focus. You _still_ don’t know what her deal is (besides being badass) or what she landed her at the TDMC (“community service”, you think she’d said, but for what?) or even what her _name_ is (oof), but she’s pretty much the dopest person you could’ve hoped to be stuck in a room with, so…it’s cool.

A little crease forms in her brow as she attempts to dismantle a particularly stubborn tangle near the base of your left horn. Unbidden, a giggle bubbles out of your throat at the sight of it. She gives you an exasperated look, and you giggle again, this time raising a hand to softly _pap_ her right on the brow.

The cerulean girl goes very, _very_ still all of a sudden. The hand in your hair stills.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. You messed up, you messed up _so bad_, who’d even _want_ a busted troll like you? You’re damaged goods. You’re a defunct psionic. You’re— what? What even _are_ you? A third-rate moisturewave streamer who’s been canceled for sweeps now? Who still pumps out material anyways because it’s all they can actually _do_? Just—wow, yeah, this sucks a big one. _You_ suck.

You’re right about to roll yourself off the cerulean’s lap and into the gracious embrace of the cold hard floor when all of a sudden there’s an arm around you and you’re being pulled up, up into the other troll’s embrace, lying sideways against her and her face is pressed against your scalp right at the base of one of your smaller horns and it’s just. Huh. _HUH._

Okay. Okay so. This is probably…a mistake, right? Just. Some pale cuddling for the lolz. There is no absolute way the literally the coolest troll you’ve ever met has fallen pale for you. For _you_? _Really?_ Folks liking you for your music, you can get _that_, okay; fans of your aesthetics and your fashion tips, sure. But _you? YOU??_

As you lie against her, numb with disbelief and also the pain of your extremely-still-present migraine, drinking in the sensation of her breaths lightly ruffling your hair, another helpful scrap of memory comes flying from the void to stab you right in the pan.

There was the sickening lurch in your acid tract as the altitude dropped, the low _thoom _of distant laser fire and then, a breathless second later, the sound of glass shattering, the hypnotized pilot’s shout of fear and alarm, and then, and then…

Someone’s arms wrapped painfully tight around you, pinning you to the seats, their body covering your own. The smell of blood. Ragged, choppy breaths, hot against the shell of your aural receptor. Spots of something cool and wet soaking into your shirt.

It dawns on you, then, that there _may_ be a reason you don’t have any open wounds.

Oh.

_Oh. _

_…_This is some _real_ shit right here, huh?

You lean fully into the ceruleanblood’s embrace, hesitantly placing a palm on her cheek and holding it there. She leans into the touch, lifting her head from the top of yours to place a kiss right in the middle of your palm. Your hand prickles pleasantly at the sensation, and when she does it again, tickling your palm, you can’t suppress the little giggle-snort that escapes. You feel like you’re floating, bruises and bandages and headaches forgotten in the other troll’s embrace.

But first. Before you get too high on the pale, you turn the cerulean troll’s face towards you so you can see it. She still looks tired, but the tension in her face seems to have softened, leaving her with this unabashedly _fond_ look that makes your face turn a little gold.

“kinda lame but like…whats your name again?” you mutter, sheepishly. “i mean the folks there called you saphyk but idk if…”

“nah, that one’s a fake” she grins. “call me ELwurd”

“is that one real?” you blurt out without thinking.

Her smile fades a little, then, but not entirely. “it’s reaL enough” she says, eventually. “shit’s kinda compLicated Like that”

Oh, there’s that worried face again. You instinctively reach up to pap it. You’re getting pretty good at that.

There comes the unmistakable sound of the door unlocking.

You and Elwurd stare as the door to the room swings open, letting in a wave of light. As you blink rapidly to adjust to the change in lighting, you notice a couple things.

One, those aren’t blood jars or organ jars or anything on the shelves, they’re…_honey_ jars?

Second, in the doorway stands the tallest troll you’ve ever seen in your entire life, and she’s _smiling_ at you two.

“Aight, folks!” she announces. “Thanks for waitin’! Coast’s all clear!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes—  
I DO think that trolls have night-vision, but I figured Cirava, with their diminished psionics and missing eye, would probably have trouble seeing in pure darkness.  
Also, alt title for this chaper: IN WHICH TWO HOPE-BOUND TROLLS, EACH OF WHOM HAVE LOST HOPE IN THEMSELVES, SEEK OUT AND FIND HOPE IN EACH OTHER DURING A TIME OF STRIFE. ALSO VIKARE IS THERE. WE'LL GET AROUND TO HIM EVENTUALLY


	27. Of Points Made and Received

Your name is MAR—

ayyyyyyyy whas poppin homes its ya boi xolo on da line

Huh?

u a fan? cuz u KNO imma gon need 2 see a backstage pass b4 i let u near da goodz ;o)

What the—oh, _this_ again.

better make dis goss quickie tho, i gotta head up in 10

Make it _what?_

dam u a slow 1. u new aroun deez parts? :op

Okay, hold on just a second. How are you—

guess u aint tried ol boldielocks pan yet LOLXoD she a savage tho

Boldie— _Boldir_? You know Boldir.

fyeah i do. u shook?

…Now that I think about it, I guess not. People like you and her, people who are aware of much more than they let on… they tend to be somewhat aware of each other, too.

dam thats sum deep shit rite there

Uhh, yeah, no, I just made that up on the spot.

lmaooo i kno. its lowkey kinda funny u think that way tho

Er. How so?

man like u tryna justify me n her meetin cuz a some cosmic fate aligning our disparate paths n stuf when the actual faxx r that we met @ a rando scarbucks and hung out

Oh. Huh.

i mean _deffo_ cosmic fate was hangin around but when isnt it lol?

Yeah, sure. So, uh, speaking of cosmic fate... have you and Boldir talked about…_that_ guy? The other one?

whitey? yea hes a real shit. boi literally just tryna @ me w that narrative prompt shit and im like bruh…im just vibin

like i got other stuff 2 do and ur just like?? sayin shit?? smh dude

…Was that last bit addressed to him, or me?

him mostly but forreal i aint got time for a grand tour of the ol pan rn. like i said, my set starts in like 2 minutes

Sure, no problem, I can come back a little later. The alternative would be sticking around for the show, and honestly, describing the exact details of one of _your_ concerts is…_not_ exactly how I’d planned to start my weekend. No offense.

none taken broski dem shits downright rank

like im backstage and i can literally smell it from here

Uggh, wow, did _not_ need to hear that.

lmaooo

forreal tho. whyre u so fussed abt the moon man? :o|

…Shouldn’t I be? He’s the big bad of this game. And timeline-wise, he’s still _up_ there, so…

i mean sure he metaphorically n literally holds the strings that hold this reality together but dont u technically supersede him by virtue of ur incorporating him into a subcanonical narrative of ur own design? like isnt he just ur chara now?

Well—

u da pimp’s pimp now homie

Okay, sure. But here’s the thing. _None of this is canon. _And don’t you dare try and bring up that stuff about Friendsim not being canon either, _you know what I mean._

:o(

Sorry. The point is, I’m not doing anything about that guy for actual, valid reasons. It just— it wouldn’t make sense? How would I even…I mean, I guess I could write him out-of-character, or I could have him killed, or just forego writing him as a part of this story entirely, but it doesn’t feel right.

sounds kinda lit tbhhh

No, it’s too convenient. I can’t deux-ex-machina my way out of having to deal with him. He’s _there_, and for now, I can’t do anything about that.

dammmm thats some weaksauce mcfuckin excuse broski Xo/

liek u out here wielding unfettered narrative powas 2 craft ur own escapist fantasy version of an existing work and developing storylines n character dynamics u wish were “““canon””” or whatevs but u a cluckbeast when it comes 2 dis?? ba dum motherfuckin tsssshhh

I literally just explained this to you! It wouldn’t make _sense! _Just— okay, listen, I gotta go. I will come back later, and we’ll work on some way to tell the next story beat through your perspective then.

ok but like consider just 1 thing…,……,…,………

What?

wouldnt it b fun tho?

…

isnt that the pt of this? isnt that why youre here? why else do u bother to paint the walls of this place with your words, week after week, if not 2 make urself just a lil happier? if not 2 take some part of this story and make it ur very own?

That’s not…

and wouldnt 

it

be

sAtIsFyInG?

…

…

…I guess so.

soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo…………………………………:oD

…

…We’ll see. It’s _still_ a plot hole, though.

i think u mean MIRACLE my dude ;o3

Oh god _please_ don’t make that face in my presence ever again, or so help me, you’re next.

* * *

Your name is ZEBRUH CODAKK, and it is a _beautiful_ night.

Sure, you might be currently sprawled at the foot of the ridiculously long staircase leading up to your hatchmate’s humble abode, but you’re not the kind to let a little tumble get you down. _Especially_ now that things have taken a turn for the fortuitous.

There you were, sidling up to Xigisi’s door in yet another attempt to get him to wingtroll for you at an upcoming book fair—possibly the only place on Alternia where someone like _Galekh_ would be considered prime quadrant material by anyone at all—when lo and behold, who should answer the door but a certain fine-legged extraterrestrial you happen to know? A surprising development, to be sure—you hadn’t thought that a reclusive curmudgeon like _Xigisi_ would be acquainted with them—but, on the whole, not an unpleasant one. If fact, if you play your cards right, this development may prove to be _far_ more appealing than your original plans for the evening.

You’d seen the news feeds, of course. A shame, the empire deciding to persecute the little alien like that. It wasn’t _their_ fault that they’d been born with such an unusual body, or blood color, for that matter. The poor thing must be so frightened, so helpless…and, possibly, _very_ much in need for some sweet, sensitive gentleman to slide into their pale quadrant.

You can think of one troll in particular who’d be _perfect_ for the job.

You’re not quite sure how you ended up at the bottom of the stairs just now. A blur, a flash of blue light, and then…? It’s all rather fuzzy. Someone _really_ should have warned you about those stairs.

As it is, you’re not at all hurt, a virtue of your indigo blood. Which is a shame, as a pitiable bruise or scrape or two would surely help your chances in getting the alien into your diamond. It’s so _hard_ being privileged sometimes, honestly. Still, the fall ruffled your clothes and hair pretty well, so hopefully that should be enough to make the alien want to pap you silly.

Bolstered at the thought, you make your way back up the stairs in record time. To your surprise, the door is slightly open. You loiter a moment on the threshold, contemplating whether or not to enter unannounced. It _would_ be the polite option. However, if you ring the bell, there’s a chance Xigisi may come to answer instead of the alien, and then you’d no doubt have to engage him in pointless banter about the “flaws” and “contradictions” in your political views instead of doing what you actually want to do, i.e. scooping that fine little extraterrestrial into your loving arms and whisking them to the nearest pile to consummate your no-doubt-serendipitous moirallegiance.

So you walk in, in all your ruffled glory, and the first thing you see is your moirail-to-be in the arms of the biggest oliveblood you’ve ever seen.

Er.

Wow.

Those are. Some very large biceps she’s got.

Just. Wow.

Not that that you’re like, _threatened_ by that, or anything. Some guys, yeah. But not you. _Definitely_ not you. Like, you can get _why_ other dudes would think that, but you? Nah. You work out, like, all the time. Seeing a midblood (not that you’re against midbloods being strong or anything) who happens to be much taller and more muscular than you isn’t gonna like, _intimidate_ you.

…

Perhaps you’d be better off dealing with Xigisi, for now.

You carefully step right back over the threshold, close the door, wait thirty seconds, and ring the doorbell.

When the door opens, about a minute later, the troll who answers it isn’t the alien or the oliveblood woman, but it’s not Galekh, either. It’s some jade chick you’ve never seen before. She’s a good half-foot taller than you (which doesn’t bother you, or anything. tall girls are great and absolutely don’t make you feel insecure about your own height, which is a totally normal and respectable height for someone of your caste and social standing) and isn’t too bad-looking, if not for the sour expression on her face. It only worsens when she spots you, eyes narrowing behind pink-framed glasses.

“-who are you ?? and what are you doing here ??” she snaps, before you can get a word in.

Wow, touchy. “I could say the same of you.” you snark back, crossing your arms in what is absolutely not a self-conscious instinct, “I’m here to talk to my hatchmate, so unless you want things to get ugly, I’d suggest you step aside.” You can’t resist adding a “♠ I’m sure _you_ of all people know what _that_ looks like. ♠”

Her face contorts with rage, to your delight. “-how _dare_ you !!!” she hisses, jabbing a pointed nail in your direction. “-just !!! insulting people out of the blue !!! is totally inappropriate !!! you should be ashamed of yourself !!!”

Jeez, why are jades always so _sensitive_? You shrug it off. It’s not like you’re here for _her_, anyways.

“Not _my_ fault you can’t take a black compliment, sweetheart.” you comment, noting how it seems to make her face contort even further, her form now visibly radiating tension. “I’m here for someone else, so step aside.”

“this is !!!! a _private gathering_ !!!!” she retorts, and whoa, was that a _snarl? _From a _jadeblood?_ “-so just LEAVE already !!!! youre not supposed to be here !!!!”

Is she seriously treating _you_ like this? Does she not _know_ who you are? Or where _she_ is right now? “Kind of hypocritical, don’t you think? Look around you, idiot. You really think _I’m_ the one who’s not supposed to be here? Jades belong in the caverns.”

You don’t have any shame in saying it. It’s the _truth, _after all. Some trolls are just aren’t _meant_ for certain things, biologically speaking, and jades definitely fit into that category. They were literally _made_ to look after the Mother Grub. It’s not a matter of oppression if they were literally _born_ for the job and nothing else.

Oh, wow, she is _really_ losing it now, huh. You’re almost impressed; you’ve never seen anyone below purple with this level of batshit crazy. It’s…starting to work your pale up a little, actually, which you hadn’t expected. Everything about this jade positively _screams _“pale virgin”. She’s probably never even been pacified _once_ in her entire life. She’d probably just _melt_ if you made a pale move on her.

She’s not the person you’d come up here intending to pacify, but _damn_, it’s clear she needs it. She’s practically _begging_ for it now, what with the heavy breathing and the murderous eyes and the balled fists.

You sidle a little closer, allowing an easy, comforting smile to spread across your features.

“-**_LEAVE_** !!!!!” she bellows, the sound actually rattling the nearest windowpanes. Wow. Desperate, much? Yikes.

“♦ Awww, maybe you should calm down a little, baby ♦” you croon, placing your hand against her cheek—

_Sqlurch._

…

…

…What was that sound?

You look down.

Hm.

There appears to be a knife buried in your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> azdaja was totally in that hug too, he was just obscured by konyyl’s incredible muscles
> 
> also- i have a twitter now! you can find me at @confusedTravel4. i don’t know if i’ll use it for much, but it exists.


	28. Of Decisions, Final

Your name is CHAHUT MAENAD. This you know to be true.

It was true long before you knew it to be. Before you knew even of _yourself_. You were such a little thing then, all soft and squirmy-like, unknowing in the ways of the world and the _heathens_ that walked upon it. How strange, to think you were very nearly as senseless and sightless as them, once upon a time.

Oh, but you knew of _Them_. You knew of Them long before you knew of anything else. When that first blissful breath you ever took caught in your bellowsacs, you could feel Their presence a-tickling at your very soul. And when They smiled unto you, lo, your first breath tumbled out laughing.

When they Named you on your baptism day, you knew for certain that you were Theirs, and They were yours. You remember that day clearly still, all these sweeps and sweeps past. The muffled chanting of your brethren, shaking you to the bone. The heavy musk of blood and syrup soaking into every fiber of very being. The drip-drip-dripping lines of purple, _your_ purple, as the singing-screaming-crying voices in your pan bade you to press your bleeding prong stubs to the cathedral wall and write those two words on the inside of your soul. For they were there already, and had _always_ been there; like all things, your true Name was already written, all according to Their plan.

The first time you said it aloud, it was like someone lit a spark inside your soul. Cackling flame burst inside your chest, filling you with a warmth and light that would blaze forever more. Even now that faith still burns bright, guiding you to keep to your mirth, even in the face of the unfunny blasphemy and willful ignorance of the masses. At the end of the night, no matter how rough, you know who you are, and you know They are always with you. These things will always be true.

So you tell yourself this, silently, as you patiently try to convince your precious little bluebell why she should just take the motherfucking Grubbie Meal™.

“i _told_ youu i didn’t _want_ the gruubbie meal™, chahuut!” She’s very nearly throwing a tantrum now, standing on the cushioned seat of the booth to give herself more height, face scrunched up in displeasure. She points one stubby little claw accusingly at the folded paper box on the table before her. “i _told_ youu that!”

“she already paid for it * might as well just eat it *|” comments your new assassin companion, who wolfed down her twelve-piece GrubNugget™ meal several minutes ago and is now gazing longingly at the unopened Grubbie Meal™.

“but i'm too _old_ for gruubbie meals™!” Amisia harrumphs, crossing her arms. Even like this, with you sat down in the booth and her stood on the seat opposite, you still loom a good two feet over her. Still, you deign to try and hunker down just a bit. You know she’s already self-conscious about her height; no use in making her feel worse while she’s already this agitated.

“what do youu have to say for youurself?” she snaps. You sigh internally and count to ten before responding.

“my bad, ‘misi.” you say, as gently as you can. “guess i jusT forgoT. here, i’ll order you someThing else, alrighT?” you offer.

Little Blue doesn’t look convinced, to your displeasure. Her eyes narrow suspiciously, arms coming up to rest on her hips. “uuh-huuh. youu juust “forgot”?” she says. “even thouugh i told youu _twice_ that i wasn’t getting the gruubbie meal™ today?”

“musTa slipped my mind.”

“and _i _think youu still think of me as a wiggler!” continues your little blueberry, tone accusing. “youur memory’s way too good to forget someone else’s order! i mean, youu remembered _her_ order, and _she’s_ a lowblood!”

“gee * thanks a lot kid *|” the oliveblood mutters dryly. You’ve taken a bit of a shine to her since the events of this evening, but she’s _really_ not helping in this particular situation.

Without breaking eye contact with Amisia, you subtly slide your half-eaten carton of fries to the assassin, hoping she takes the hint. She sets upon them almost immediately, flashing you a quick look of gratitude before seizing the paper carton as though it might run away from her and then proceeding to inhale the contents.

“i don’T Think of you ThaT way, and you know iT, liTTle blue.” you explain, firmly, to your young companion. “you really Think i'd leT a _wiggler_ come scrapbooking with me? no, i didn’t moTherfuckin’ Think so.”

“then why’d youu order me a gruubbie meal™?!”

The truth, you know, is quite simple—you don’t want her to grow up. You _know_, of course, that it will happen, that time will descend to snatch you away from her and into the far reaches of space, away from your congregation and away from _her_. You have no qualms with serving your empire, so long as it allows you to spread the good word of the Messiahs, but…when it happens, it’ll mean your Little Blue will be all alone on the planet for _sweeps_ without you by her side. And even when she _does_ reach conscription age…outer space is awful big. The odds of you seeing her again are slim to say the least. Even if you rise to become the most renowned subjuggulator in the empire, save The Grand Highblood—and you _very_ much intend on reaching that level—you’ll still have duties to perform, duties which will take you farther and farther away from her.

You’ve thought about ways you could keep her with you. Of course you have. Perhaps you could request she join your elite squadron, once you’re ranked enough to have your own command? No, they’ll just put you with other subjuggulators. Indigos aren’t at all shabby at culling, and you could _easily_ see your bluebell becoming nearly as strong as a purpleblood, if not _as_ strong. But, at the end of the night, there are traditions that need to be observed in order to keep things as they should be. An indigo serving as a subjuggulator would be unacceptable, bordering on blasphemous.

You know, of course, that Their way is best. But looking at Amisia now, her little cheeks all puffed up and blued…the thought of leaving her behind, forever, is enough to make the fire within you waver, if but for a fraction of a moment.

“chahuut?” Ah, that’s right, you still need to give her an answer. Well, the Messiahs don’t give too much trouble for little white lies, so long as it’s to keep things merry.

“ah, you goT me, liTTle blue. TruTh is, i wanTed the liTTle TrinkeT inside for my collecTion, and you know They don’T serve grubbie meals™ To anyone over six.” you shrug, carefully watching for her reaction.

Amisia gawks at you, then—mercy of sweet mercies—giggles a little. She sits back down at the booth, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “chahuut, youu’re so ridicuulouus. youu got me a wiggler meal juust so you couuld get a—” she reaches for the Grubbie Meal™ box and digs around before pulling out something fluffy and colored bubblegum pink— “—a _meowbeast keychain_?”

“yeeeep.” you drawl, gesturing for her to give it over. “unless you’d like to keep iT?”

“no _way_.” she snorts, tossing is across the table. You catch it easily and immediately clip it to your belt. You aren’t as avid a keychain-collector as you are a scrapbooker, but you’ll treat yourself to a squeaky little friend every so often. Some of them make the _funniest_ little noises.

Your little bluebird finally starts eating, to your relief. Eating good food is important for any growing troll, and you can’t do much better than GrubDonald’s™. Best motherfucking grub around.

You notice the oliveblood side-eyeing you. Somehow, she looks even tenser than before the meal, fiddling idly with the empty fry carton as she sneaks glances at you when she thinks you aren’t looking. You regard her a few moments before asking, “whaT?”

She jolts a little, but manages to answer in a neutral tone. “so * this place is pretty high-end *” she begins, cautiously. “and i’m not exactly rolling in caegars right now * but i have some savings stashed back at my place * so if you want—”

Oh, that’s adorable. An assassin with a sense of honor? What a strange little paradox she is. Makes you want to chuckle, a bit.

“keep iT.” you cut her off. “lunch is on me, liTTle survivor. you've already paid your fair share in blood.”

You try not to laugh at the expression of pure shock that crosses her features before she’s able to wrangle them back into something more aloof. “thank you *|” she says, somberly.

“you can Thank me when your moirail’s safe and motherfucking sound.” you state, matter-of-factly.

Her cheeks go bright olive at the word “moirail”, and you can’t help but chuckle. Ah, new love. Such a terribly disarming thing it is.

When Amisia’s on her last couple bites, you catch the eye of the nearest server and gesture them over. You immediately recognize the troll as one of your congregation members, partly by his paint and partly by the fact that he’s juggling no less than nine plates of food.

“\\* you want that on your tab, sister maenad? */” he asks brightly. You nod, and then, just to test him, toss a ten-caegar piece his way. He catches the tip with ease, the shining coin seamlessly joining the ring of objects arcing over his head. “nice caTch.”

“\\* been practicing for the day of delight */” he admits, with just a hint of bashful pride. “\\* they say its going to be a big one this year and i dont want to fall short of the other acts */”

“well, my broTher, you jusT keep on pracTicing.” You grin at him. “i’ll be looking forward To see whaT you come up wiTh this sweep ‘round.”

“\\* mirth be with you, sister */”

“mirTh be wiTh you, broTher.”

You watch him go, never once faltering in his act as he makes his way through the restaurant. Talented lad, that one is. More of your junior congregation members could stand to learn from his work ethic. Your two newest congregation members, for instance…those two could use some discipline. A miraculous pair, no doubt about it, but they’ve shown themselves to be more predisposed to pranks than they are to prayers. Far be it from you to forbid your brethren the right to some good old-fashioned japery, but putting stink bombs in all the braziers was… a touch too far. Soon as all this alien-chasing business is over, you very much intend on having a little _word_ with their lusus. With the Day of Delight just a couple nights away, you’re gonna need everyone to get their motherfucking clown asses in gear. _Including_ those two.

Several minutes later finds the three of you on a street corner near the restaurant, watching a drone platoon soar a couple dozen meters overhead. When they’ve passed, you look at your companions. Little Blue looks thoughtful. The oliveblood has chewed a bloody tear in her lip.

You’re considering asking if you can take a smear of blood for your scrapbook when the assassin’s palmhusk rings, causing her to startle with a meowbeast-like squeak. She takes a look at the screen, frowns, and picks it up with a “i think you have the wrong num—”

Then she freezes, eyes going wide. “_tegs_ ?*|”

She throws the two of you a glance and mouths “have to take this *|” before ducking into the mouth of a nearby alley. You catch the words “what happened to your palmhusk *” and then she’s gone, leaving you and your little blueberry out on the sidewalk.

“chahuut?”

Her voice is uncharacteristically tiny and strained, and in a flash you’re down on one knee so you properly see her face to face. “yeah?”

She squirms, visibly uncomfortable, refusing to meet your eye.

“’misi?” you say, gently.

“i'msorryiyelledatyouu” she bursts out, eyes squeezed shut. “i was acting like a _total_ wiggler and embarrassing youu in front of the other puurples and—”

You place a claw to her lips before she can blaspheme any more. “don’T you say anoTher word, liTTle blue. iT ain’T no Thing.” You assure her. “i should’ve done beTTer To Take your feelings inTo accounT when i ordered for you.”

“buut—”

“no buTs. you’re a big Troll, no maTTer what anyone says, alrighT?”

“…okay.” She mumbles. “buut i’m treating _youu_ next time.”

“only if you promise To order me a grubbie meal™.” You reply, solemnly. She giggles. It’s a glorious sound. If you could only find a way to scrapbook sounds, you’d have your little bluebird’s laugh on every damn page.

“uugh, i hope we find them soon.” groans Amisia, crossing her arms. “i’m almost totally ouut of muutie-red paint.”

“don’T leT her diamond caTch you Talking like ThaT, she mighT Try and cuT you again.” you tease, poking the now-healed cut across her mealtunnel. “i’d like to see her try.” huffs Amisia, batting your hand away, though there’s not much force in it.

Just then, as though summoned by the mere mention of her moirail, the assassin returns. Her expression is carefully guarded, her form taut with tension. She nods briefly in your direction, keeping a couple meters’ distance. “i have to go deal with something * something urgent * but ill shoot you a message if anything comes up *|”

Oh, she _knows_ something. Something to do with her moirail. Something she’s decided it’s best not to bring to motherfucking show and tell like a good little ally would.

You know Little Blue sees it too. You’ve hunted with her long enough to tell when you’re in sync, and you can tell she’s seen right through the horseshit this troll’s serving up. You rise slowly to your full height, never once taking your eyes off her. You could voodoo her now, squish her pan until the truth comes oozing out, but you decide to let Little Blue take the lead. No point in wasting a good ally, albeit one who apparently doesn’t trust you with your mutual friend's safety.

“so, no news?” amisia asks sweetly before the assassin can get more than two steps away. The assassin freezes, but when she turns to face the both of you, her expression remains carefully blank. “nope * still no sign of them *|” she says.

Oh, you’ve got her now. It takes everything in you not to let a huge grin split your face. No, you want to let Amisia have her moment. You’ll get to play plenty when it’s your turn.

“_them_?” Amisia says. “i didn’t say anything about a _them_.”

The look that crosses the oliveblood’s face is just about the most delicious thing you’ve ever seen.

She goes for her knife, but that second of pause cost her dearly. You’re upon her before she can get a good grip on the handle. You seize her wrist, yank it up and away from her body, and squeeze. She hisses in pain, but doesn’t cry out, instead fixing you with a look that sends an unexpected little tingle down your posture pole. You hear a warning shout from Little Blue, and before you can restrain her properly the assassin’s other hand shoots out and

_scraaaaaaaaapes_

three long, burning lines across your face.

_Your_ face.

_And every single voice in your pan **wails** in fury and delight._

You look at her with new eyes, drinking in the sight of one who would dare to put a claw to your paint.

The assassin’s eyes are wild and frightened, teeth locked in a snarl. She’s dead and she knows it, and yet she’s _still_ struggling against you, pulling against your grip. Oh, what a precious thing she is. If you hadn’t a match with Moolah coming up, you’d probably ask this scrappy little survivor out for a little fight, just the two of you.

But, well, you’re a busy troll, so you tighten your grip until you hear her wrist bones creak and fling her bodily into the nearest brick wall.

She hits the wall of the nearby alley with a _crack_ and a gasp. From the mouth of the alleyway you watch her as she struggles to get up, bandaged limbs trembling, olive streaming from her mouth and nose. Amisia taps your leg and you step aside to let her past. Your hunting partner strides forward to stand over the assassin, arms petulantly crossed.

“so? what’s the news?” she snaps. “youu _know_ where they are now, _don’t_ youu?”

The assassin glares. “as if i'd tell you * you’ll just try and use them for paint again *|”

“oh come _on_. i thouught we were all working _together_.”

A bark of laughter, and the oliveblood girl spits a mouthful of blood at the ground near Amisia’s feet. “nice try *” she pants out, staggering to her feet, “but i _heard_ you just now * and if you think i’m letting you within a mile of my moirail then you’re out of your pan *|”

Now _that _gives you an idea.

“and if you don’T Tell liTTle blue whaT she wanTs to hear, you’re going to be ouT of _yours_.” you state, stepping forward to loom over the oliveblood girl. Fixing your bulbs on her, you reach out with your voodoos to open her pan to the voices in yours, just a crack.

Instantly she recoils back, eyes wide and shocked, mouth gaping. Her hands come up to clamp over her aural receptors as though trying to block the voices out, and her body begins to tremble violently. You’re almost impressed she didn’t just collapse. Most tend to lose all physical strength within the first second.

After a few moments, you bid your voodoos to retreat before the voices can sneak in too far and ruin her pan. The voices protest, but obey your call, pulling away from the other troll’s mind. Once they’re gone, she seems to crumple in on herself, clutching her arms, eyes wide.

“come _on_.” Amisia whines. “this is getting so old. _youu_ know the alien, _we_ know the alien, blah blah blah blah. couuld we juust go see them already?”

The oliveblood glares, but doesn’t say a word.

A thought crosses your mind, then, and you laugh aloud. “you keep This up, and you’ll be in worse shape Than your liTTle gravedigger.” you muse. “aT leasT you’d have a broken pan To match.”

Oh, _that_ does it, all right. Her eyes blaze with pure platonic hate. “shut up * don’t you _dare_ say a word about him *|”

“you scraTched my painT, moTherfucker. i’ll say whaTever i damn please.”

“are youu two _flirting_ right now??” your little companion yells out in frustration. “can youu _not? _i _juust_ want to see my muuse again!”

“not unless i know for sure you aren’t going to bleed them out *|” the assassin shoots back.

“uuuuuuuugh. fine. i _promise_.”

“not good enough *|”

“are youu kidding me?”

The assassin’s palmhusk rings out again.

She makes no move to pick it up, her eyes darting from you to Little Blue to the alley exit behind you to a fire escape a few meters above your heads.

“don’T even Think abouT iT.” you deadpan, using your voodoos to take a single, painful stab at her pan, just as a warning. “pick iT up.”

After a long moment, the oliveblood girl slowly reaches down to pluck the palmhusk from her pocket.

“answer iT. speaker.”

With trembling fingers, she taps the screen of the phone, twice.

A brief crackle of static, and then a familiar voice rings out in the filthy alleyway:

Polypa?

The assassin seems to stop breathing.

Are you there? Poly—

With a strangled cry, the oliveblood girl hurls the palmhusk at the ground, where it shatters on impact.

* * *

Your name is NIHKEE MOOLAH, and you’ve made up your mind.

You stand by the cots in the corner of the Muscle Theater changing rooms, idly doing bicep curls as you observe the results of your little experiment.

In one cot lies your newest trainee, her slim form covered in bruises in every shade from tan to umber. An icepack the size of your fist is secured to her forehead.

In the _other_ cot lies her former opponent, two huge wads of fabric shoved into their aural receptors to staunch the bleeding from their shattered eardrums.

Yep, you’re sure of it.

You’re going to make this girl a _champion_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chahut best mom. best person? not really


	29. Interlude 4: Of Strings, Severed

It is now after midnight.

Viewed from above, the subgrub of Outglut is nothing remarkable. Just another dark splotch on the planet’s surface, no bigger than most of the others. A well of shadows, spooled beneath several thousand bowed heads. Oh, sure, there is _some_ light to be found there, but from this far above, it really doesn’t seem to matter.

On this night, however, there is something different. The subgrub seems almost to buzz, a low, persistent noise. It’s a noise that is far from uncommon on this planet and, in fact, is not even unique to _this_ planet in particular, but it’s the first time in a while that it’s ever been quite so _loud_. Normally, one would observe that the sounds of blared robotic commands, screams of the injured and dying, and general property damage tend to blend together into a sort of hum that, over time, becomes easy to ignore. Tonight, however, Outglut seems to positively _resonate_ with it.

We come closer, now, and watch as a bristling mass of drones forces its way steadily through the district. A dozen or so beams of light stream forth from their visors, raking garish lines of imperial red across the buildings and streets. Every so often, one of the drones will pause, thermal scan having caught something suspect, and the drone will temporarily leave the group to go investigate. Thus far, all of the drones have returned back empty-clawed, unable to locate their collective quarry. This investigation continues, on and on, starting with the lowblood district. House by house, street by street, the drones carve their way across the city.

The streets are largely emptied, save for a few unfortunate passersby attempting to scuttle out of the danger zone and into the nearest open doorway. Some of them even make it.

The third drone in the formation catches a pinprick at the end of their lens. They turn. They “investigate”. When they return, the air, already dense with smoke and fumes, seems to have darkened further.

The search resumes.

Far, far above, the moons dance their nightly duet across a vaulted, starry ballroom, none the wiser as to how the world below has changed during the night.

Or, well, at least _one_ of them is unaware. The other is a bit more suspect.

Relative awareness of planetary satellites aside, however, there are certain things that everyone tends to notice. They may not always notice themselves noticing, of course; one’s body is more aware of changes in the world than its owner realizes. The seasons change, the years pass, the planet whirls dizzily about its axis, and we change alongside them. Creatures and species that survive for generations upon generations do so because their ancestors possessed certain instincts, able to react to changes and threats to their immediate environment without thinking. The same is true of events on a wider scale. Though the stirrings of nebulae some million light-years away might not merit much of a reaction, there are certain things that everyone everywhere feels.

The death of a god, for instance.

On the fringes of where those of sound mind can safely dream, the horrorterrors feel it. From a thousand gaping maws echoes a joyous screech, a hideous exultation of glee entrenched in schadenfreude.

At the bridge of a magnificent ship, its prow marking the arrowhead of a vast fleet, gliding haughtily through the cosmos, an old, old troll feels it. She feels suddenly unfamiliar within her own body, as though the one she had inhabited all these years had been nothing but a shell, a final chrysalis layer that had never fallen away. She feels raw and light and _new_, in a way she hasn’t in millennia. It feels wonderful and frightening all at once, and for a long time, she does not move from her position on the bridge, as though the slightest movement might shatter her.

And down on the planet below, in a beautiful house on a hill, Boldir Lamati feels it.

She immediately makes a beeline for the nearest window, unintentionally cutting off her startled conversational partner mid-sentence. The window is a steep, elegant thing, with a small padlock affixed. The oliveblood troll unceremoniously snaps the lock in her hand and throws the window open.

She stares out, eyes fixed wide and unblinking on the sky above. She pays no mind to the host’s indignant shout at seeing the window forced open, nor the concerned question of her alien friend, nor the jadeblood attempting to hide a body in the flower patch below. All her attention is focused on the green moon.

The green moon, which just so happens to be almost directly above them.

The green moon, which had been full earlier that evening.

The green moon, which now has a conspicuous chunk missing from it.

Within the next few minutes, minor bedlam erupts, as small, flaming chunks of the meteor that had struck the lunar entity just moments before pepper the grounds of the Xigisi manor. There are shouts of alarm and calls for water and the sound of breaking glass.

Boldir Lamati does not react to any of this. She remains at the window, a silent, solitary watcher, for some time. Her fedora lies at her feet, having fallen in her rush to open the window. The aluminum interior winks up at her. She doesn’t even seem to notice.

When she finally speaks, it’s to form just two words.

“(he’s gone.)”


	30. of...uh...just a sec...Thoughts and Things. got dat alliteration yo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry

ayyyyyyyyyyy whazzup my funky lil friends! how yall hangin n bangin? cuz im p beat tbhhhhhh XoP

oooooh i kno DAT look. dat 1. aw, see, u did it again. dat look like “yo wtf dogg i thought we was done w dis.” “dis” being me flappin my big ol talk blaster in ur general direction. 1st things 1st—motherfuckin’ _chill_, broski. im summ of a professional when it comes 2 da performing arts. this ain’t me just straight goofin in da talkbox like itz 2012 and were on fanfiction dot net or smth.

but dam, if dat werent a helluva time to b alive. folks just out there writin metafiction 4 fun, w/out even knowing it, interacting with fictional characters on a 1-on-1 level like the bestest of buds. dont even get me started on selfinsert fic, dats a whole ‘nother lvl. u rly just put ur whole self in there?? littt. mortifying ordeal of being known who?? dont know her.

wild thing abt dat tho, if u look at actual legit literature— “legiterature”, lol—itz not dat diff from those kinda fics? on a wider scale i mean. itz like… all stories r iz just a buncha selfinserts runnin wild, no matter how hashtag #og itz tryna be. were ALL out here projecting n shit. _fuck_, who even knows where ppl end n where stories begin? :o| im not just talkin bout charas inspired by irl ppl, im talkin abt irl ppl 2. how can any of yall rly b sure u arent justa small frag of some larger narrative, too? rite now, ur engaging in fiction derived from other fiction, in which a fictional dude with a dope style iz talkin abt fiction. takin dat in2 account, how wild would it rly be if U were just some1 elses fiction? LOOOOL.

come 2 think of it. arent u part of some1 elses fic already?? ok, so itz liek this. ur a person, presumably. a real dealio person. but ur _also_ a part of multiple overlapping narratives. im not talkin bout dat RPF thing—dat shits wack— i mean regular-ass stories. if some1 tells a story ur a part of, dont u become a character of theirs? a part of a specific narrative? bc now, wat wuz previously just a brief happenstance in ur life iz now a _story_, w/ a defined beginning and middle and end. and u, ur one of itz elements.

r  u a protagonist? an antagonist? a supporting cast member? depends on who’s telling da story. and the minute dat story gets told, wat becomes of u? now ur “character” exists in da pans of the others who heard it, outside of ur control. how far will the effect ripple outward? and how much of u will it take along w/ it? how much responsibility do u have for dat version of u? wat if ur the only 1 who rly knows u as a person-person, and to every1 else ur just a chara version of u? does the only “canon” ver of u exist in ur own pan and nowhere else?

wow, dam, sorry for goin off like dat famsquad. i aint used to entertainin audiences not wearing diapers. itz kinda weird, tbh, folks just payin attention to my _words_ n not my sweet tunes or kewl looks or anything like dat . LOL, feels kinda like da first time i went 2 clownfessional. o messiahs, look upon this humble jugg with all ur grace and mirthcy, etc etc. a-fuckin-men.

anyhoos. itz me. ya boiiii. here to roll out da purple carpet and give yall a vip tour of da ol pancrib. ur welcome. watch ur step, dont wanna set off them sprinklers LOL.

sooo, i betcha i can whiff watz stewin up in ur pan rn. aww, r u wonderin why im all on my lonesome? dats so sweet. how could i be lonely when ive got some1 lik u to keep me company :o)))

forreal tho, s’all good, homes. i was just thinkin we could try smth diff for once. like, ok. listen. i aint got no motherfuckin qualms with second-person narration. shits tighter than a jar of pickled pus peppers. _fuck_ those things r hard 2 open.

but anyhoo, as yall know, im a solo act. s to the o to the l to the o. if im up on stage, then id rather b da one runnin da show, no offence. but dw, ill look after yall for as long as da wordcount lasts me. i aint no slacker. like i said—im a professional. youll GET your narrative progression, freshly delivered n steamin hot, courtesy of urs truly. y’all’re gonna have 2 be careful not 2 burn ur fronds handling THESE sizzlin literary skillz, m’dudes BoD

speaking of wordcount, i should stop gabbin at yall and get this thing goin. not dat i dont enjoy vibin w/yall but theres relevant story shit we gotta get 2. buckle up, cuz imma put da key in ignition and crank this thing tf UP. vroom vroom motherfuckers.

i prolly dont need to introduce myself at this pt, but some traditions just gotta be observed. itz a matter of motherfuckin principle. even when canons been well n truly tossed out da viewport, ya still gotta do the thing. 4 da vine.

aight, lets do this.

my name iz MARVUS XOLOTO, and tbh, im sleepy af rn.

nah wait dat  wasnt gud. 1 more time.

my name iz MARVUS XOLOTO, and im honestly sleepy as _fuck_ rn.

ayy, second time’s da charm. _now_ were talking. or narrating? yeah. in either case, imma drop some sick story beats on yall, now dat ive got da hang of this thing.

so there i was, just chillin in my personal dressingblock, chuggin a two-liter bottle of Jazzin’ Blues Berry Faygo. ive only been off da stage about ten minutes now, and im _parched_. the rest of mes not doing much better, tbh; itz a really fuckin humid night, and after doing a full set on an outdoor stage in full costume, im basically just a gross sweaty puddle of sleepy rn.

don’t get me wrong!! im hella into wat I do. singing’s legit da best thing ever. everything goes all electric and tingly and magical, and u just _sink_ into the music, letting it move through you and all around you. feels like living a miracle. basically da best thing ever. but ngl, all da other stuff dat comes w/performing iz…not exactly chill n breezy. id rather not go into the details. but like…………yeah. it do b like dat.

the dressingblock aint always mine, tho itz da one i always use whenever i put on shows in west outglut. i wanna say it feels like a 2nd hive, but…dat'd be a p heinous lie. da dressingblock works as a place of temporary respite, but only dat—temporary. debris of previous inhabitants aside, itz kinda hard to get ur chill on while being highly aware of the fact dat theres legit just a slim steel bar between u and a horde of bloodied + enamored music appreciators.

as a result of this, in spite of my exhaustion, im wide awake when the universe breaks.

well, maybe “breaks” iz kinda…not wat happened. thatd imply a violent suddenness to the action, and while wat happened was _deffo_ violent, it was far from sudden. the tearaway from canon—if “canon” iz even where we started out from lmao—is less of a clean break and more like…the end of a cascade. there was no way da other narrator was gonna be able to sustain this thing with the moon man fuckin around in da margins. smth HAD to go, and by smth, i mean him.

so im just. just sittin there, basically dissolving into a saggy armchair, open bottle of Faygo in one hand, wearing basically just a robe and da bedazzled pants from my concert outfit. chillin. then the whole of existence flattens out like a piece of paper. which doesnt sound like much, I know, considering a visual novels already p flat, but u know wat I mean.

now, i dont have da same knack 4 detecting da tendrils of narrative influence as boldie iz—im more of a big-picture kinda guy— but damn if da sound of da puppetmaster’s strings breaking aint practically audible. sound nearly had my dam aural receptors ringin. if i rly listen, i can hear the shockwaves dat ripple outward from dat singular point of canonical divergence, each warping the fabric of reality like itz a ball of paper in da hands of a restless child. crinkle, bend, crease, fold, unfold, smoothen, and then all over again, like every atoms havin an existential crisis all at the same time.

and dam if itz not a cool fuckin sound. kinda wish I could write lyrics 2 it, but idk if I could really do the sound of catastrophic canonical divergence any justice w plain ol words. it just aint the right medium 4 it.

so anyhoo, the state of canons basically havin a panic attack rn. id give it a hug n a chkn sando if I could but i rly don’t think thatd work, so i just lean back and wait it out. canon or nah, existence-stuff tends to b p resilient to capital-s Shenanigans. mad props 2 all of reality 4 just keepin on happenin constantly. dats some inspirational shit rite there.

oh, and sure as dat, reality starts phasin back in, this time inna canonical state dats less “dubious” and more “unfathomable” which, yea, dats fair dude. yall gotta deal with, like, wider ramifications n shit. in the meantime, i take another swig of da good elixir. ey, wattayaknow, the flavors gone n changed to Pineapple Watermelon. wild. then i just shut the ol ganderbulbs and allow my consciousness 2 sink into da eternally branching labyrinth of fractured mirrors dat iz da wider metaconsciousness and settle in 2 watch da show.

for a lil while, I just chillax and watch all them pretty lights dat glimmer in between da cracks in reality. things start to settle around the time dat the Faygo’s three-fourths of da way gone, and im just swirling the dregs carelessly by the neck of da bottle while watching as existence itzelf tries 2 regain itz composure. it somehow manages to regain itz footing, albeit much more unsteadily than before. aw, suck it up, buttercup. u were never standing on solid ground to begin with. “dubiously canon”, remember? dats all we r. pick ur head up queen, ur corporeality iz fallin !!

when the worst of it iz over, were left in a new branch of illegitimate reality, hot off da presses n already crumbling 2 bits. all in the name of self-indulgence and wish fulfillment. cheers ill drink to dat bro. treat yo self. time to motherfuckin partayyy.

once im tangible again, i yank my pan outta the ol Time maze and start flippin through the contacts on my phone, lookin for my fave fan’s number. aw, _you_ already kno who it iz, dontcha? dat alien’s a real one, for sure. and i dont just mean dat theyre a tru homie, which they r, but like…theyre _real_ in some ineffable kinda way, a way dat defies all rulez of canon and yet iz undeniable. and ngl, defying rulez o canon aint dat hard to do, tbhh, but defying _all_ of them at once ?? w/out being consciously aware of it ?? das smth real special.

ok like I know im sposed to be doin some narrative progreshin stuff rn but like. can I just _talk_ abt this alien kiddo for a sec ?? like…idk where even 2 start. in concept, their existence iz just supposed 2 b…empty, a hollowed space in which the 1s controlling them can insert themselves n they own intentions. essentially a conduit 4 for da experiences of the readers n players n whatevs. dats the basic concept. but theyre not ?? empty ?? like theyre managing to b other ppl and also themselves? and on top o dat “themselves” iz like…super nice? i mean kinda awkward but just a genuinely good lil dude. like man theyre just vibin !!

an like. bruh. another thing. dis alien iz like. cute ?? like, objectively cute. but strangely they dont rly seem to own it ?? like im p dam well-versed in performance personas, and _nothing_ abt da way dat alien carries themselves seems to suggest they find themselves evn remotely appealing to the eye. do they rly not _know _? has no one _told_ them ?? srsly, whatre all yall ppl doin not tellin a cute person theyre cute ?? yall better get ur acts together and be good 2 them. like forreal this lil dude should NOT be out there thinkin they aint a fuckin baller. for shame. yall gotta show ya homies some love. if they out there bein snax n not knowin it u KNO u gotta call em out on it.

oshit were already 2000 words in and all ive basically done iz watch existence unravel and knit 2gether again. motherfuck. sorry yall im p scatterpanned rn. we gotta get stuff movin n groovin.

aight, so i scroll down my contacxxx for a coupla mins until i find da lil alien invasion of 1. i boop their digits and wait for them to pick up an ask if they know watz goin on, bc im starting to suspect the divergence may involve them somehow and dats gettin me kinda jittery. no answer. they dont pick up.

i dial a second time, and then a third time, and then one more time jus in case. 4th times da charm; a click sounds in my ear after the fifteenth ring.

_“This device has been classified as evidence in part of a larger investigation.” _states a voice i aint never heard in my whole motherfuckin life. “_Please identify yourself so that we may—”_

i shut the call down immediately. dam, da fuzz musta got a clue dat theres an unidentified ET planetside. i check the feeds and, yep yep yep, guess who got themselfs on the high-pri cull lists while i was up on stage? yeppppppppp. :o< itz dat lil buddy.

i realize itz prolly not safe to use dis husk no more. folks prolly id’ed me offa da caller id, and even if my digits werent under my full name in lil buddys contacts, theyd probably figure im an accomplice based offa da pics o dem i got on my chittr.

tbh dats not much to b worried abt. my hemorank means i wont get culled, just yoinked in for q&a. even then, aint nobody stoppin me lyin my globes off. cerulean detecquisitors aint gonna be able to scratch dis pan. thems da faxx. but tbh? im not lookin to get my ass arrested on purpose. itz a waste of time, not to mention sister maenads gonna skin me 4 bein a bad example 2 the rest of the flock or smth. and like…sis has a pt, tho i wish she didnt. i aint lookin to be nobodys role model, im just tryna chill and have a good time.

i start gettin ready to scram, swappin out my post-concert-recovery outfit for jeans n a caste sign hoodie. it sounds like theres still rabid fans outside, so i go for full disguise mode—hair tied back inna bun, hood up to hide da paint, shades on. at this pt i dont rly have much of a plan besides ditchin the husk and finding out wat the sitch is from boldie.

b4 i go, i pop by the other dressingblocks and let the rest of da squad kno im boutta head out early. they seem p surprised im skippin the after-concert dinner, but i go ahead and let em kno theyll see me at dusk prayers later. w/dat done, i skeddadleedoo, leaving the palmhusk i was using in da nearest dumpster to the concert grounds. hopefully itll be a while b4 da fuzz track it and head on over. wouldnt want my squad to get hassled by the drones. dat wouldnt end well 4 da drones LOL.

itz still p humid out when i get outta da concert grounds, but itz hella better now dat im in casual clothes n not a concert outfit. itz not too hard to get around the fans, luckily, tho dats mostly bc a lot of em r either passed out or worse. theres a coupla drones prowlin around, but theyre just there 2 dispose of any corpses, so they dont pay attention to any livin trolls tryna slip by. in a coupla minutes, im out on the street, lookin for a payphone. it takes a long fucking time to find one dat works. drones rly done a number on da neighborhood over da last coupla hrs.

it takes evn longer to dial up alla boldies burner husk #s 1 by 1 until she finally picks one up.

_“(hes gone, xoloto.)” _she states, w/out preamble. dam. howd she guess it wuz me?

i ask her dat exact query, and she sighs. “_(you are the only one with the number for this specific burner husk.)” _

“aw yea thatd make sense. so hows it hanging :o?”

_“(i cant be sure yet. too many variables to consider. not enough data collected. ugh, i could really use my notes right now…)”_ she sounds perturbed, and p understandably so. like i said, boldies got more of da galaxy brain when it comes 2 da moon man. whatevs iz happenin rn iz prolly fuckin her pan up summ good.

“dam, dude, u sound like a daywalker. u been drinkin dat hydration fluid?” i cant help but say. and no, b4 u start peepin @ da ship tags, dis aint a thing-thing. shes not lookin for a moirail and i kno it. she jus sounds like she could use some comfortin rn, iz all.

a lil chuckle over da speaker, like a tiny lil miracle. “_(ill be alright.)” _she says, clearly just to assure me, but i let her be on dis one. “_(apparently the universe hasnt melted into a puddle of nonexistence yet, which is sort of the worst-case scenario, so all in all, a solid win. albeit an unexpected one.)”_ yea, theres deffo some strain in her voice there. boldie was dead set on exposin the moon mans machinations herself, so this happenin iz …kinda like stealin a W from her, tbh. still, a W’s a W.

“everythins still poppin on dis end, as far as existence goes” i report back, idly twisting the wire connecting the phone to the booth. hehe, springy. “just like u theorized, the disposal of cueball thru extracanonical means just sprouted an offshoot timeline, rather than just makin everything go poof.”

“_(a doomed timeline?)”_ Her voice iz tense.

“honestly? i cant tell yet.” i admit. aw, dont look @ me like dat, im tellin da truth. i dont lie to boldie.

“whatever were in, itz hella unstable. idk if we can stabilize it, but it doesnt seem impossible.”

"_(hmm.)”_ she intones, thoughtfully. “_(im definitely going to have to consult my notes on this.)”_

“want me 2 swing by ur apartment hive n bring them over 2 where u r? im free until evening prayers.”

_“(oh, that sounds great, actually. tell you what, why dont i just meet you there? we would be better off discussing this in person. we dont know who—)” _she cuts off, then, as though having suddenly remembered something. oh, lmao, did she forget already?

“we dont know whose listenin?” i finish. “well we sure af kno whos NOT listening rn lmaooo”

_“(we absolutely do.)” _she affirms. she sounds like shes grinning aural receptor to aural receptor, now. must be hella adorable. “(_wed still be better off erring to the side of caution. you _do_ know youre wanted for questioning on a high-priority cull case, right?)”_

“yea, i got da gist. hows our lil buddy-boo?”

“_(how do you know im with them?)” _she inquires, with coy faux-suspicion.

pfffffftt. i cant help but bust out laughing. “ofc ur w/them, bol. i know u; u prolly rushed to keep em safe da millisec their file hit da database.”

“(_youve got me there.)” _she sighs, tho the sound iz fond. “_(yes, theyre doing just fine. they werent in great shape a couple of hours ago, but now theyve been patched up and moved to a safehouse. i cant give away too many of the details in case this call has been compromised somehow, but one of their highblood friends has…_graciously_ provided temporary accommodations.)”_

basically 90% of wat she said flies straight over my head as i zero in on one specific thing. “they werent in great shape ?? wat ??” i repeat. here id been thinking theyd just been filed for a high-pri cull cuz o gettin caught on a streetcam or gettin hemoscanned by a drone. wat da motherfuck rly happened?

“_(you know their hive? the old watchtower?)”_

“yea, when i dropped them home once.”

“_(fell off the cliff.)” _she deadpans. “_(passing drone stopped to investigate, and, well…)”_

oof, yea, thatd do it.

“so ur pozzy dat theyre a-ok now?”

“_(most definitely. im literally in the same room, watching them and about four others argue about whether or not Troll Sasuke is valid for pulling the shit he did.)”_

“wats their stance?”

“_(not valid, obviously.)”_

“aw, why? wasnt dat dude just doin his best?”

“_(because he, and i quote, “left all his friends behind like a big stinking idiot”.)”_

“dam, he did? wasnt he on da same team on them tho?”

“_(when exactly did you stop watching Troll Naruto?)”_

“ep 5.”

“_(thats fair, honestly.)”_

“meetchu @ ur place in 20?”

“_(yeah. there should be a red burner palmhusk under a floor tile in the only exposed corner of the nutritionblock. use that to order a flavor disk if youre hungry.)”_

“youre the best, bolbol :o)”

_“(and were both legally insurgents now so if youll excuse me, i have to go destroy this burner phone now.)”_

after the call, i pop outta da phone booth, set it on fire just in case (dam, boldie’s sensibilities must be catchin on) and start strollin along. i guess i could call a cab to take me over to the midblood district but tbh, a refreshing walk sounds p fuckin lit rn. been a while since i just strolled around on the ol struts, instead a takin da limo. nice 2 have some time 2 myself, too. the jugg squad rulez, obvs, but sometimes itz nice to just—

theres a tug on the back of my hoodie, cuttin off my train a though. a mugger? or worse, a fan? dam, i woulda brought some merch along if i knew i was gonna get accosted.

i turn round, all slow and nonconfrontational, and itz …a wiggler? lil thing dont even come up to my hip. she looks p frazzled, hair all over da place, bright green uniform tattered and burned in places, eyes all wide n angry like an angered hornbeast. also for sum reason her hands r clamped over her aural receptors?

when i turn to look at her, the kid scowls and barks out smth in…east alternian? yo, listen, i dont—

“YOU.” she screams. “STOP TALKING. IN PAN.”

wow, dam, aight, aight. p sure im past da wordcount any—

“NOW.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm furious that I actually went and looked up real Faygo flavors as part of the prep for this chapter. If you told me a year ago I'd be taking time out of my day to research flavors of a soda I only know of in a fictional context, I'd be pretty surprised. But well, here we are. Have any of y'all ever tried Faygo? I haven't, though I've heard it tastes kind of...strange?
> 
> This fic will be on break next weekend! Thank you for your patience and support thus far, it literally means the world to me.


	31. Of Stakes and Suspicions, Raised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for somewhat disturbing dream sequence with mild gore at the start of this chapter. If you’d rather skip it, scroll until you see a row of asterisks.

Your name is CHIXIE ROIXMR, and you give it freely. You do not have much else to give.

The figure in the doorway does not want your name.

There is no need for names in this place, it says. This toll is insufficient.

Another rule. You are still learning the rules of this place.

You carefully fold up your name, careful not to crease it, and tuck it back inside your chest.

You lift your chin to meet the watcher’s eyeless gaze and sing a single musical note. You feel the hard planes and sharp edges of it solidify in your throat before it tumbles into your mouth, clacking against your fangs.

You open your mouth. The note falls into your palm, a glittering, honey-gold jewel. You extend it to the faceless gatekeeper.

The toll is deemed acceptable, and you are permitted entry.

Inside is a vast room. In the center, a solitary spotlight falls upon a small circular platform. You know this to be your stage.

Surrounding it are an audience of silent watchers, their forms cloaked in shadow. They occupy every inch of the remaining space in a dark clotted mass that extends to the far edges of the room. As you cross the threshold, the crowd parts soundlessly, creating a straight path leading right up to the stage.

They have been waiting for you.

You walk down the path and up onto the platform. When you turn back to face the watchers, the path has already sealed up.

The audience stares blankly at you. They wear no expressions, but you can feel their anticipation.

You do not know how long they have been waiting for you. You suspect it’s far too long.

You open your mouth and sing. Music swells in you and spills from your lips in a shower of glittering amber, topaz, and citrine, cascading down to the boards of the stage. The jewels slice at your throat, your soft palate, your tongue, your lips, until bronze runs down your chin in a constant trickle.

You do not stop singing, even as your throat burns and blood fills your mouth. You know you must finish your song. This, too, is a rule of this place.

As you sing, the growing puddle of gems at your feet begins to seep over the corners of your little stage, tumbling to the ground with little clinks and clatters. The nearest audience members make no move to collect them. They simply watch you.

The song ends. Your jaws snap shut. You are tired and emptied, and you are satisfied.

You step down from the stage to leave, but the crowd does not part this time. Instead, it presses closer.

No. No, this is not what is meant to happen. This can’t be. You paid the toll. You finished your song. You are done here.

The crowd moves even nearer, forcing you back until your calf hits the rim of the stage. You cannot read their expressions, but you can read their intent, a silent howl that presses against the backs of your ganderbulbs.

They want you to sing.

But you have nothing left to give them. You are hollow, and in pain, and you cannot open your mouth, not even to tell them, through torn lips, that the music is gone from you.

The watchers press steadily closer to you.

Icy panic floods your veins. You scramble back and up onto the stage. They should not be allowed to enter this space. They shouldn’t be able to.

The figures do not stop. Without even pausing, the nearest one to you steps silently onto the stage. Then another, then another. They are coming from all sides. You hear the untouched gemstones crunch beneath their feet.

They are willing you to open your mouth, to sing, but you cannot. You cannot open your mouth.

The closest figure outstretches an arm, clawing for you, and this close, you can see the hungry indigo of its eyes.

They are too close, too close. Multiple hands reach out and seize you, halting any attempts at fleeing. Several more sets of hands reach out to dig into your face, forcing clammy fingers between your bleeding lips.

They wrench your jaw open, and what comes out is not music, but _something else_, something that burns you from the inside out and tears itself from you with a terrible roar and you can't move you can’t think you can’t _breathe—_

**************************

Without warning, blinding light floods your vision. A pair of hands seizes you by the shoulders and yanks you free of the suffocating dark.

Limbs freed, you slump to the ground, hacking and coughing. Your throat is burning like you’ve swallowed acid. However, you don’t taste blood. You touch a hand to your mouth and find it mercifully intact, not to mention fully devoid of any semiprecious stones.

_Just a daymare, just a daymare…_

Wow, it’s been a _long_ time since you’ve had one of those. The last time was…when was it? Oh, right.

There was a time—around a sweep-and-a-half ago, not long after you’d first decided to be a singer—when you’d had to go without fresh sopor for a while because the filtration system in your recuperacoon had broken down, and the carpenter drones hadn’t come around to fix it until a good six or seven perigees after you’d made the request. Funny how they don’t tend to do that when it’s a highblood asking, huh?

Needless to say, it wasn’t a very stable time in your life.

How did you even end up in this situation? _Again_? What happened to you? Where—?

Through the last scraps of the daymare still clinging to your pan, you dimly register a familiar voice murmuring close by.

“[()] You okay there, sister? Just breathe nice and long for me, alright? In, out, in, out…that’s right, just like that. Keep going. [()]”

You obey the voice’s commands without thinking, hauling in a huge gulp of air. You almost choke on the first breath—your throat is still aching like you tried to swallow an angry meowbeast. A large hand gives you a hard slap on back, sending you into another coughing fit, which _really_ doesn’t help matters. The hand returns a second later, rubbing soothing circles into your upper back. It’s…actually really nice. You concentrate on the sensation as you take a few more breaths, through your nose this time.

As your breathing evens out, you regain your senses in little bits and pieces. You become gradually aware of the fact that you’re kneeling on the ground, half-propped against another troll—the same one who’s keeping a large, firm hand against your back. As you blink rapidly a few times to clear away the fuzzy spots, the first thing you see is none other than the face of…your gym trainer?

Nihkee’s wearing an expression you’ve never seen on her before, a strange mix of perturbed and concerned, thick brows tightly furrowed. Her expression brightens at the sight of you blinking woozily up at her.

“[()] WELCOME BACK TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING, ROIXMR! [()]” she bellows, and you can’t help but wince. _Ouch_. Now your ears are ringing. Well, at least you’re fully awake now.

What’s confusing is _how_ you’re awake. Last _you_ checked, you were pretty much a goner.

The situation only gets more confusing as you quickly examine your limbs. None broken. But how? You _heard_ your wrist snapping! Which, no surprises there, really hurt! A lot!

Whose idea was it to stick _you_ in a cage match, again?!

You’re about to say as much to Nihkee when you finally notice your surroundings. Namely, how alarmingly _unfamiliar _they are.

You’d first assumed that Nihkee had just taken you back to her training gym in the back of the Muscle Theater. However, a second glance only confirms that, while you are indeed in _a_ gym, it’s not the same one you’ve been training in the last couple of wipes. It’s a little bit larger, a _whole_ lot more dangerous-looking, and—if the indigo insignias emblazoned on the many, many racks of towels were any indication—very possibly reserved for the indigoblood’s own, private use.

In other words, you’re probably at her _hive._

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead.

Why are you _here_? Why would she bring you to her hive? After all, you _very_ obviously lost the match, no doubt about it. If anything, she should have stormed off in disgust. Which probably would have been for the best, considering you absolutely positively _did not_ consent to being made to take part in a literal deathmatch just three wipes into the training course.

Maybe she thought you still might have some potential, and she wanted to have you try different weight machines? Ones they didn’t have back at the other gym.

…Or maybe you’re dead meat.

Your attention is forcefully jerked back to the present by the sound of your maybe-future-murderer’s voice. “[()] Been staring at that wrist of yours for a while now, Roixmr. [()]” she states. You just barely manage to suppress a jolt when she continues, “[()] Mind if I take a look at it? [()]”

Seeing no other alternative, you extend your wrist out to the indigoblood, willing your arm to keep from trembling.

Nihkee barely seems to notice, grabbing the proffered wrist with surprising care and turning it this way and that, gently prodding at it. She nods once, gravely, and then her face splits into a grin. “[()] GOOD AS NEW! [()]” she exclaims, releasing your hand. “[()] As I had hoped, the medicalizer has perfectly restored you to PEAK condition, Roixmr. We’ll have you back in the ring in no time at all! [()]” She flexes for emphasis.

“whuh?” you croak, eloquently.

Nihkee’s gleeful expression falls into a somber one with alarming speed.

“[()] After your match, I requested the aid of the Muscle Theater’s mini med drone, a noble spirit who has tended my own wounds many a time, on your behalf. ALAS! [()]” At this, she strikes a different pose, clenching one formidable fist bitterly and using her other hand to dramatically flick a tiny teardrop from the corner of one eye. “[()] The drone proved woefully recalcitrant once brought before your recumbent body, BRUISED and BATTERED in the heat of battle. HOW it could have turned a blind eye to such a BRAVE warrior, I cannot even begin to fathom! [()]”

_well _duh_ / it’s because I’m a lowblood / and therefore marked as a low-priority patient / which practically everybody knows,_ you think, but you don’t interrupt her.

“[()] SO! [()]” She poses again, raising a fist to the ceiling in apparent victory, eyes blazing. “[()] Faced with WEAKNESS and HESITATION, I took it upon MYSELF to ensure that my pupil—and TRIUMPHANT VICTOR—received the care she well deserved! And how, with the assistance of my personal full-body medicalizer, you’re right back in fighting shape, sister! [()]”

She gestures to something behind you, and you twist around to see what it is. The machine doesn’t look to be a training device. It’s an oblong container that somewhat resembles a recuperacoon, but when you peer over the rim, what you see is not sopor slime but a…person-sized cutout. The edges of the cutout look to be made out of some kind of flexible material so as to fit around different body types. There’s also a lid propped up next to the container.

“[()] It’s quite a useful tool for restoring one’s VIGOR after a full-body workout! [()]” Nihkee beams, before her expression turns uncharacteristically sheepish. “[()] HOWEVER. It may have been unwise to place an unconscious person within its rather CONSTRICTIVE and NON-SOPOR-CONTAINING confines. My apologies, sister. [()]” Bam, another pose change. “[()] I cannot provide tangible RECOMPENSE for the dayterrors that resulted, but I can PROMISE you that I will put such tremendous effort into training you from now on that you will NEVER feel fear again. I will BANISH the emotion! [()]”

You kind of just nod along. It’s all a bit much at this point, honestly.

You’ve heard of medicalizers before, of course. A certain indigo guy you _wish_ you didn’t know once showed you one when he’d invited you over for a “business meeting” (i.e. a snooty dinner party you didn't know you had to dress up for) over at his hive. Ugh, that’d been a terrible day. If not for that nice cerulean troll you’d met, it’d probably have been unbearable. Which reminds you, you _really_ should call her back re: how the match went, once you’ve confirmed that your gym coach isn’t planning to murder you or anyth—

Wait. _Wait._

What was it she said before? Something something casteist med drone something something TRIUMPHANT—

“i won?” you blurt out. “i / i _won_?”

“[()] YES! [()]” roars Nihkee, pumping a fist. “[()] You obtained GLORIOUS VICTORY, little pupil! Now, BRING ‘ER IN! [()]”

You’re swept into a hug that squeezes all the air from your bellowsacs and promptly black out.

Thankfully, you come to just a few minutes later. As an additional bonus, you don’t wake up in a dark, claustrophobic corpsebox this time. You don’t even wake up in the same _room._ The new room looks like a loungeblock, if the loungeplanks (upon one of which you’re splayed) and entertainment center are anything to go by. The walls are plastered all over with Muscle Theater posters, approximately one-third of which feature Nihkee.

Speaking of whom, your gym-coach-slash-possible-future-murderer (???) pops her head in from an open doorway. She gives a shout of delight to see you awake and charges in to scoop you up—marginally more gently, this time—and whisk you into a bright, spacious nutritionblock. You’re plopped into a chair at a small table, and before you can say anything, a huge, heaping nutrition plateau of various breakfast meats is placed before you. You could _swear_ the pile is about half your size.

You chance an uncertain glance at Nihkee, who’s grinning at you expectantly.

“[()] Eat up! [()]” she says. “[()] The first step to becoming a CHAMPION starts with the acquisition of musculature! [()]” And then she flexes, because of course she does.

Er. You kind of really don’t want to become a Muscle Theater performer. But you also don’t want to anger the big scary indigoblood whose hive you’re all alone (???) in, so you just offer her the least wobbly smile you can muster and pick up a spearing implement.

Nihkee watches you take the first few bites, then gives a solemn nod and seats herself across from you to begin digging into her own nutrition plateau, which is stacked about three times as high as yours.

A few minutes pass in silence, the only noises being the sounds of you picking gingerly through the mountain of breakfast protein and Nihkee decimating her own. You honestly don’t feel like you can stomach too much of it. Your acid tract churns with anxiety and fear as you try and process your current situation.

Okay. So. You may not have been in as much danger as you’d assumed. Are you trapped in the hive of a highblood you’ve only known three wipes and who tossed you into a cage match without so much as a warning because she “wanted to see if you really had what it takes”? Yes. But is she going to kill you? Probably not. All she’s done so far is heal you, comfort you in the aftermath of a dayterror, and feed you more food than you’ve ever seen in your life.

And it almost seems like…she’s proud of you, for some reason? What did you even _do_ during the match? The last thing you remember is getting kicked in the thorax.

“so /” you begin, hesitantly, putting down your fork. “about the match back there / um / _how_ did it go?”

“[()] Just WAIT until you see the footage later, Roixmr. It was marvelous! Not an expected finale, but nonetheless, a wondrous victory. I didn’t think you had it in you! [()]”

“had _what_ in me?!” you snap, unable to contain your ire. Could she just get to the point already? “i don’t remember how it ended / probably because / oh i don’t know / the bruises and internal bleeding / thanks for that by the way! / so why don’t you tell me what—”

You have to break off your tirade when your still-sore throat burns in protest, and you’re overcome by another coughing fit. _Ugh._ You must be coming down with something.

Someone slides you a glass of hydration fluid. You grab it and force yourself take little sips rather than gulps, so as not to set off another fit.

Which turns out to be pointless, because Nihkee then says something that makes you simultaenously choke and spew water across the table.

“[()] Don’t you know, sister? Your MUTATION! [()]”

Wh. What?

You stare at the highblood, wide-eyed, barely noticing the water soaking into your shirt.

_What did she just say?_

You must have accidentally uttered that last thought aloud, because Nihkee peers at you in apparent puzzlement and says, “[()] The psychic scream, Roixmr. The one you used to blow out your opponent’s auricular sponge clots? That? [()]”

Your _what_?

“[()] _Quite_ extraordinary. I’ve heard tell of goldbloods with unusually powerful psionics, but never a bronze capable of incapacitation using their psychic voice. [()]”

This is bad. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Like, okay, sure, you’ve never really managed to Commune all that effectively. Every time you’ve tried it, the beast you were targeting always ended up cowering and paralyzed, which is why you don’t use it that often. But you had always assumed that you were just a late bloomer, or something. That maybe you just had poor self-control. That’s it, right? Right?

“[()] Roixmr. ROIXMR. Roixmr you’re hyperventilating again. [()]”

Is THAT why she brought you here? To keep you confined until the drones arrive? That has to be it, right?

Wait, did she say there was _footage? _Does this mean everyone in the audience saw you? EVERYONE?

“[()] ROIXMR. [()]”

The voice comes from right by your ear. You startle, an involuntary little shriek escaping you.

The “little shriek” rattles the entire room.

_Ohhhhhh no no no no no no no this can’t be happening this can’t be happening— _

You’re snapped out of your downward spiral when the indigoblood lets out a shout of delight.

“[()] There it is again! [()]” she beams, clapping her hands together. “[()] I just KNEW you had something special, Roixmr! We MUST start training this up for your next match!”

What is she even _saying_? Does she not _know_ how bad this is for you?

“next match? / there isn’t going to _be_ a next match / there should have even been a _first _match!” you burst out. “i can’t do this again!”

Nihkee looks genuinely confused.

“[()] Why not? [()]”

“because- / i- /” you sputter, “because i don’t _want _to / not to mention / i might get culled if people find out!”

Nihkee somehow manages to look even more puzzled. Oddly, the fact of your mutation (?!) doesn’t seem to trouble her as much as the possibility of you not returning to the ring.

“[()] But this strength of yours is a GIFT, sister. You must HARNESS your natural gifts! [()]” she flexes emphatically. “You listen here, Roixmr. You know what Muscle Theater is all about? [()]”

“…showing off how strong you are?”

“[()] PRECISELY! [()]” she declares, with a huge, many-fanged grin. “[()] In Muscle Theater, it’s not just about BLOOD. It’s about SKILL! It’s about STRENGTH! And that voice of yours, Roixmr, is more than a GIFT— it is a STRENGTH to be nurtured and suckled until it FLOURISHES!! You hear me sister? You must cherish your natural gifts so you can use them to CRUSH your foes!! [()]”

“but won’t people _notice_ if I use it?” you point out, helplessly.

The other troll just throws back her head and laughs heartily. “[()] Don’t you worry about that! The audience of the Muscle Theater normally expects the performers to have some gimmick or trademark move. [()]” she explains, excitedly. “[()] Your voice could easily be passed as one of them! Besides, by the time I’M done with you, you’ll be so rippling with muscles that you’ll hardly even need it! [()]”

Your pan is spinning, now. Is this _really_ something you can do? You’re no fighter. Sure, you started the training course because you wanted to be stronger, but when it comes down to it, you’d rather beat people down with your words, not your fists. Then again, if you were using your voice, it wouldn’t be so different…

No, you can’t get carried away like this. It’s nice to know that the troll who’s been giving you training exercises doesn’t really seem to care about your maybe-mutation— but maybe that’s just because she thinks it’ll make you a better performer. What if you said no? Refused to set foot in the ring ever again? Would she report you to the drones? Or maybe even kill you herself for wasting her time?

What a _mess_.

First things first, you need to leave. It’ll be much easier to sort through your options once you’re back in your own hive.

The next half-an-hour passes somewhat peacefully, with Nihkee enthusiatically detailing your future career as a Muscle Theater actor while you occasionally nod and take little bites out of the vertiable mountain of breakfast protein still before you. It’s actually really tasty, and you surprise yourself by managing to get through a good two-thirds of it. You hadn’t realized just how hungry you’d been.

You freeze, mid-bite, when Nihkee mentions the average payout for winning a match. Specifically, how much the payout for _your_ last match was.

Okay, wow. That’s. Uh. That’s a _lot_ of money. The odds against you must have been really high, which honestly doesn’t surprise you one bit. _You’d_ have bet against you winning.

Hm. You might need to reconsider some things.

You ask Nihkee if she knows where your gym bag is. To your relief, she immediately produces it from the hall closet, with the explanation that she’d brought it back to her hive from the Muscle Theater locker room, along with your unconscious body.

You hurriedly check and see if your palmhusk is still there and are relieved to find it unbroken and 48% charged. You quickly skim through your missed calls and find that exactly eight of them are from your pityfriend.

Making a quick excuse to Nihkee, you slip out of the nutritionblock and quickly call her back. The husk buzzes dully against the shell of your ear for a good minute before you hear the telltale _click_ of someone picking up.

“_You’ve reached the number of the one and only Remele Namaaq. Who—”_

“remele / oh my gog / you will not believe what happened to me last night” you burst out. “i think i might be a muscle theather performer now? / maybe? / also / there’s another thing / i really need to talk to you in person about / are you free tonight?”

There’s a pause, and then:

“_And whom the fuque are you supposed to be?”_

Something about her tone sends a chill shooting up your posture pole.

“it’s me / chixie / chixie roixmr?” you repeat, trying to ignore the sudden pounding of your pumpbiscuit.

“_Oh, Roixmr. That little bronze girle from Codakk’s dinner party?”_

Seriously? Is this a prank? “yes? / we left early together and went to scarbucks instead? / and then we went ou—/ um / hung out a couple more times?”

“_Ahh, I see. It’s you, then.” _She replies. There’s something really off with her tone. It _sounds_ like her, but where Remele’s speech is normally melodic and just a touch theatrical, _this_ Remele is curt and abrupt. If you didn’t know her voice so well, you’d swear it someone imitating her.

“_Well? What is it you wante?” _She sounds irritated.

“hey / is everything okay? / you sound really stressed out”

“_I’m perfectly fine. Or at leaste, I _was_, until an annoying little girle decided to waste my precious time.”_

What the _hell_? She’s never spoken this way to you. Even when dealing with _Zebruh,_ she always had this kind of sarcastic grace about her.

It’s kind of why you started falling for her, to be honest.

“i just wanted to know if you wanted to / you know / meet up later today? / i've got a lot to tell you”

“_If all you wanted was to chitchatte, I’m afraide I cannot afford to waste my breath. I have a gallery opening in juste a few wipes, and the preparations will require every ounce of my focus and concentration.”_

Okay, that’s _definitely_ not Remele. Remele, preparing for something more than a wipe in advance? Remele the procrastinator? Remele “oh don’t worry about me, my lovely, I’ve got it all taken care of, wink wink” Namaaq?

“who are you / and what did you do with my friend!?”

“_Who am I? Did you not _hear_ me? I’m Remele Namaaq.”_

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The Remele you know would have tacked about three other ill-earned titles to the end of her name.

“you listen to me / you had better tell me where she is / or i will choke you on your own horns / you hear me? / now tell me where she is!” You’re yelling at this point, and honestly, you don’t really care who hears it. Something has gone _seriously_ wrong here.

You hear nothing but silence from the other line, and for a moment, you think you’ve gone too far.

And then she just _laughs. _And laughs. And laughs.

You used to believe that Remele Namaaq’s laugh was among the most perfect sounds in the universe. You used to think it would be impossible for anyone to hate such a sound.

You thought wrong, apparently.

“_Oh, now that’s just plain pathetique. Tell you what, dear. Why don’t you call me bacque when you’re a little less pitchy, and I’ll see if I can schedule you in sometime in the next swee—”_

You hang up before she can say any more vile words in Remele’s voice. What _was_ that? An impostor? A prank caller?

Or what if it really was her?

You’re not sure what disturbs you more.

One thing’s for certain, however. You’re going to head over there and find out just who the hell that voice on the phone line thinks they are.

You shove the husk into your gym bag, haul the strap over your shoulder, and start making your way over to the door, shouting hurriedly over your shoulder: “hey coach / thanks for everything / but i have to go / my friend needs me”

“[()] Hold on there, sister! [()]” Nihkee emerges from the nutritionblock and heads over to you. “[()] I’ll give you a ride. [()]”

“it’s okay / i can take the bus / no need to—”

“[()] Trust me, you won’t find one. [()]” The indigoblood’s expression is grim. “[()] The subgrub’s been on high alert since yesternight, don’t you know? [()]”

“wait / why?”

Nihkee goes over to the entertainment center, switches on the television, and flicks through seventeen different sports channels before hitting the public news channel.

On the screen is a shot of the night sky. Which wouldn’t be all that much cause for concern, if there wasn’t a large and conspicuous crater in the green moon where there wasn’t one before.

The banner scrolling at the bottom of the screen reads: **ALTERNIA UNDER ATTACK BY ALIEN INVADERS???**

Which then scrolls to the side to make way for a new message:

**EMPRESS’ RETURN IMMINENT !**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The medicalizer is from the Amisia's route; it was a machine that kind of squeezed around their arm and let go once they were healed. I figured a full-body one would be very useful for a wrestler, though not much fun to fall asleep in...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	32. Of Fervor and Favors

Your name is TYZIAS ENTYKK, and you’ve just about resigned yourself to the fact that you’re never going to sleep again.

Which you don’t think is an unjustified lifestyle choice, considering that the fucking Condesce herself decided to announce her return while you were out.

A tinny burst of trumpets playing a snippet of the imperial anthem sounds from your palmhusk speakers to signal the end of the official bulletin released earlier that night. You automatically reach out to hit replay for the eleventh time. After a few painful seconds of buffering, the words begin to roll across the screen once more.

ON T)(E SIXTH DAY OF T)(E TWENTY-SECOND PERIGEE OF THE NINE HUNDRED AND T)(IRTY-SECOND SWEEP OF OUR MOST GLORIOUS EMPIRE, AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIFEFORM WAS IDENTIFIED AS )(AVING INVADED OUR PLANET. AT 1404)(RS OF T)(E SAME NIG)(T, AN EXPLOSION DESTROYED A PORTION OF T)(E GREEN MOON, RESULTING IN MASS CASUALTIES AND )(EAVY PROPERTY DAMAGE. IT IS BELIEVED BY THE )(IGHBLOOD COUNCIL THAT T)(E ALIEN’S BRET)(REN LAUNC)(ED T)(IS ATTACK AFTER CONFIRMING )(ER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION’S ABSENCE—

You can’t restrain a huff of derision. For the Highblood Council to publicly announce that conclusion during what is _still_ very much an ongoing investigation is completely irresponsible. Should new evidence come to light that proved them otherwise, they would be left floundering. Then again, if their goal is to spread warmongering and paranoia, then finding the truth is hardly their biggest concern. If anything, the truth getting out would be a liability to their current goals— which means that it _could_ be beneficial to your own.

—W)(IC)( PROMPTED W)(AT IS CLEARLY A DECLARATION OF WAR FROM T)(E EXTRATERRESTRIAL FORCES—

Okay, seriously? “Declaration of war”? Where did that even come from? This bulletin just looks sloppier and sloppier the more you rewatch it. The Council’s clearly grasping at straws, and they aren’t even being subtle about it. Any one of your coworkers could come up with a better way to phrase what is essentially “we don’t actually know what’s going on so we’re just going to start a war because that’s the only situation this empire is capable of dealing with”.

—TO W)(IC)( WE WILL RESPOND WIT)( APPROPRIATE FORCE UPON THE EMPRESS’ RETURN IN T)(REE WIPES.

You already have “3 wipes” written multiple times in your notes, but you circle it a few more times for good measure.

UNTIL T)(EN, T)(E SEARC)( FOR THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPY WILL RESUME AT ALL COSTS. ALL IMPERIAL SUBJECTS WILL BE EXPECTED TO FOLLOW A CURFEW AS LISTED HERE—

You glance over at your calendar, lying atop one of the teetering stacks of books and papers that litter your desk. Huge chunks of time at the beginnings and ends of each night have been angrily blotted out with a fuchsia highlighter.

—INFORMATION T)(AT AIDS IN ITS CAPTURE WILL BE REWARDED BY LOCAL AUT)(ORITIES—

No, they won’t.

—IN ADDITION, T)(E FOLLOWING SUBJECTS MUST REPORT TO T)(EIR NEAREST DISCIPLINCINERATION COMPLEX FOR QUESTIONING AND—

You hit pause before the caste signs can flash across the screen and put your palmhusk down. You already know what they are; you saw them the first ten times you watched the video. Nonetheless, seeing them makes your acid tract lurch with dread each and every time.

Your eyes automatically slide down to one of the sheets of paper scattered across your desk, to the smattering of notes you’ve scrawled alongside rough sketches of the signs. You’ve never met three of them in person, though you know of them via your mutual friend: a cerulean GrubTuber who specializes in niche snuff videos; a popular purpleblood rapper notorious for his concerts’ fatality rate (and, among the legislacerator circles, (in?)famous for being the only known clown rapper whose surviving audience members have never, ever sued for injury); and a goldblood music streamer who was allegedly at the center of some social scandal roughly two sweeps ago and has managed to keep off the imperial radar since. (You’d actually started listening to their streams while studying, at your friend’s recommendation, and you had to admit they were pretty nice. The fact that their sleeping patterns were apparently as abysmal as yours was an added bonus, as it meant you hadn’t had to change your study schedule in order to listen to their streams.)

The fourth and last caste sign belongs to a troll who works just an office away. Or at least, she would be, if not for the current situation.

You always knew something like this could happen. You _fucking _knew that Tirona messed around with the official records database from time to time. As far you know, the only criminal records she’d messed with were the alien’s and her own, but that was more than enough to damn her once the empire realized they were dealing with an extraterrestrial and not a mutant troll.

You almost wish you could feel anger towards her, for bringing your shared legislacerative unit under suspicion. Perhaps even a sense of gratification, knowing that she was getting exactly what she deserved for exploiting the system. Or better yet, indifference. Any of those things would be better than what you actually feel like in this situation, i.e. like shit.

This never would have happened if you’d just paid more attention to her. Hell, she _wanted _you to. The kid was always banging on your office door like the world was ending. And sure, sometimes she’d come over with an _actual_ legislacerative issue she needed a second eye on, but ninety percent of the time, it was for something completely inane. You kind of got the sense that she was just bored and wanted you to entertain her somehow. Eventually, you’d just stopped answering your door entirely.

That hadn’t stopped her coming to your door, not for a good sweep. You don’t actually have a clear memory of when she stopped trying. Maybe it was around the time she could finally afford her own palmhusk? You definitely remember a time when Tirona would constantly blow up your notifications in the middle of the day to yell about internet celebrities you didn’t know or care about. Part of you wants to open your husk and see if you still have her muted on GutsApp.

You decide not to check. You get the feeling it wouldn’t do you any good.

You tear your eyes away from the notes and resume skimming the bulletin, searching for any useful details you might’ve missed the first ten times. The rest of it is mostly dates, schedules, and assorted warnings, most of which you already have written down and calendared. You idly scratch an itch on the back of your neck while re-skimming the list of suggested methods with which to cull the alien should one encounter it out in the wild. It’s shorter than you’d expect, which is hopeful, since it means the government doesn’t know how weak your friend really is. Good for them. You hope.

The words’ cherry-red glare is almost unbearable in the darkened office, but you keep looking at them regardless, because hey, you’re pretty sure your eyesight can’t get much worse than it is now. The color almost seems to mock you. It’s strange to think there was a time when it meant nothing to you. When you couldn’t see an empire painted in blood, _his _blood.

Even now it makes you angry. He struggled and he fought out of love for his planet, and now his planet wears him like a trophy. He had so little for himself when he was alive, not even a sign to call his own, and they somehow managed to degrade him even more now that he’s dead. All that now truly remains of his legacy is the color of his blood, and even that has been stripped of all meaning and memory.

Blood. Everything’s always about fucking _blood_. You’re tired of it. Tired of _all_ of it. And maybe just a little bit tired in general, sure, but that’s not important. What’s important now is the fact that the Empress is coming back to Alternia for the first time in hundreds of sweeps, and you, as a legislacerator-in-training, have three wipes to figure out how you’re going to secure an audience with her.

If the judicial system of Alternia is a tapestry of hypocrisy and contradictions, then the Condesce is a convenient pair of scissors. The rules simply don’t apply to her. She could make and remake the entire system of governance on a whim. The heiresses are powerful, yes, but they are still beholden to the opinions of the various members of the Highblood Council. To influence them in a way that matters would mean working your way into the Council, and the Council doesn’t admit representatives below cerulean. The best chance you’d have of influencing them would be as a high-ranked legislacerator, and even then, your advice would hold little sway over that of the Council.

You remember your first time taking the exam to qualify for the position of junior legislacerator. There had been one particular question that stuck with you. The question had been, “Which of the following are judicial powers are held by the throne of Her Imperious Condescension?”

The reason it stuck with you was because it had been a yes/no question.

If you met with _her_, you could change the entire judicial system just like that. The very prospect of it is dizzying. Sweeps’ worth of work to get your revisions into the judicial system incorporated, bit by bit, instead made to happen in an instant. If all goes well, Alternia might have a functioning justice system before you’re even conscripted.

It’s a risky plan. The probability of you getting culled is…astronomically high, probably. You haven’t crunched those specific numbers yet. Stelsa, on the other hand, could probably mentally calculate it in just a few seconds.

You ignore the pang in your pumpbiscuit at the thought of your matesprit. You haven’t yet told her what you’re planning, nor have you begun to even think about when and how you’re planning to do it, if at all. You feel guilty keeping her in the dark, of course, but what are you supposed to do? If you tell her, all you’ll be doing is causing her anguish. Of course, you getting fucking executed would _also_ serve to cause her anguish, but if all goes well, that won’t be a concern. And, well, if worst-case-scenario does happen to play out…

_She’ll be fine,_ you tell yourself. _She’s strong, and she’s better at taking care of herself than you’ve ever been. She’ll move on._

You tell yourself this, but you don’t believe a word of it. You know your matesprit. What you’re doing right now is going to hurt her, whether or not you succeed.

The most reasonable course of action, then, is to stop being her matesprit.

You’re trying not to think too much about that option, either.

Suddenly desperate to take your mind off that particular idea, you feel around your hoodie until you find the burner husk tucked into an inside pocket. You flip it open—it’s _that_ old—and dial the number you’d taken care to memorize the previous night.

It rings a couple of times before a vaguely familiar voice answers, somewhat groggily,

_“May I help you?1”_

(1. At 4:00 in the fucking afternoon?)

“is tirona there?”

“_What? Who is this?”_

“tirona kasund.” you state, trying not to let the frustration you’re feeling creep into your tone. “tealblood. short. wwwwon't get off her phone.”

“_I’m sorry, _who_ is this?”_

The conversation ends up far longer than either you or Xigisi—right, right, that’s his name— ever wanted it to be, because you’re so agitated that you forget there’s a password you’re supposed to give, and he’s too tired to remember to ask you for it. He then hastily claims to have been “just testing you” when you point all of this out in an awkward attempt to commiserate with him over what sleep-deprived messes you both are.

Well, you can definitely see why Gor-Gor fell in spades for him.

A few minutes later, Xigisi confirms to you that both your colleage and your little alien friend are safe and fast asleep. You decide to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, because _one_ of you might as well show a little common fucking courtesy, thanks, and hang up.

It occurs to you, very, very, very, very briefly, that you may need sleep more than you’d previously thought.

No, it’s fine. You’re fine. You are going to cram several sweeps’ worth of schoolfeeding into three wipes, receive your certification as an official neophyte legislacerator, and find a way to meet the empress. And you are going to be just. Fine.

The alien should be safe staying at Xigisi’s house for the time being, you tell yourself. Tirona too. You’ll visit them for sure later in the wipe, once you’ve caught up on your schoolfeeding assignments. No, wait, forget that, you won’t, because you’ll be speedrunning legislacerator school and won’t have time to leave your husktop. Maybe you can do a video chat? No, wait, the government. Maybe you could call them back on the burner phone. For about half a minute. That’ll be nice.

There comes a knock on your office door.

You freeze.

Another knock, and then, “Tyzias? Are you sti// here?”

You’re considering not responding, but something in Tegiri’s tone makes you take pause. Carefully, so as not to disturb your “system”, you pick your way across the floor to the office and open the door.

Tegiri is standing there, and he isn’t alone. He’s carrying an unconscious troll on his back. What little of the face you can see peeking over your coworker’s shoulder is bruised and swollen, but her features are unmistakably familiar.

You look from the Polypa’s face to Tegiri’s. He looks completely terrified.

“She needs help” is all he says, and it’s all he really needs to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that everything before this chapter took place in a single day?


	33. Of Plans and Pillows, Objectively Terrible

You are now the MSPA READER, whatever the hell that even means, and you’re pretty sure none of your friends actually need you.

This thought occurs to you at around 4:00 in the afternoon, lying sprawled on one of Galekh’s stiff and uncomfortable loungeplanks with a raging migraine.

You’re not particularly sure of where the thought comes from, but with it comes an aching hollowness that starts as a hard, cold lump just beneath your ribcage and gradually collapses in on itself until all you feel is numb and empty. The chill that settles into your limbs refuses to subside even as you pull the two layers of blankets—snuggleplanes? whatever —more tightly around your bruised and battered limbs. You squeeze your eyes shut and try your level best to ignore it. It’s way too early for this.

As you take slow, measured breaths in an attempt to focus on literally anything other than the awful sensations in your head and chest, you feel the edge of an overstuffed cushion dig into your back for what HAS to be the umpteenth time. With a groan of frustration, you reach around to toss the cushion to the floor, where it joins several of its fellows. _Ugghh._ Out of all the loungeplanks you’ve crashed on, you’d rate the one in Galekh’s guest room a solid C.

…Okay, maybe that’s being a little bit harsh. Galekh’s furniture might be kind of stiff, but you’ve spent the night on far worse loungeplanks. You’d probably put his on the lower end of the B tier, right up there with Skylla’s, which had been wonderfully soft and warm with hand-stitched cushions but was also completely covered in dog lusus hair. While the experience hadn’t exactly been optimal, it had been infinitely better than the D-tier monstrosity that was Mallek’s sofa. You distinctly remember waking up with three new cracks in your spine and smelling strongly of oil. At the very least, he’d made you breakfast and offered to wash your clothes, which had bumped him up from a high F.

Now, Tagora’s loungeplank…in terms of basic functionality re:sleeping, it’s not that much better than Mallek’s, all sleek and stylish and completely awful to lie down on. Or it would have been, if Tagora hadn’t taken one look at your situation, turned, marched into his ablutionblock, and emerged with a huge armful of fluffy, freshly-laundered towels. Just for that, you’d put his loungeplank at the lower end of the A tier. You try not to sleep over too often at his place, though. You know how much he cares about his ablutions, and despite how chill he’d been about the whole thing, you felt kind of bad about monopolizing all of his towels.

Ah, wait, no, now you’re thinking about how much of your friendship with Tagora is real and how much of it is just you occasionally using some lawyer’s shower as payment for helping expand his client base. Fuck. Stupid dumb insomniac brain. Back to the loungeplank ratings.

S-tier went to the loungeplank over at Stelsa and Tyzias’, _no competition_. You slept for _forty uninterrupted hours_ on that thing, and not because your hosts were being extra quiet, oh no. You’d just slept _that_ heavily that even Stelsa’s “NORMAL SPEAKING VOLUME” couldn’t rouse you. You feel a sudden pang as you remember that, oh right, that’s probably the very same couch they laid you out on earlier. Aghh, you probably got your weird blood on it. You’re definitely going to apologize for that later. But holy shit, you sure do with you were sleeping on _that_ loungeplank instead of this one. Be nice if you could get something like that for your hive—

Oh, right. You don’t have one of those anymore.

Which leaves you…where, exactly? While the watchtower doesn’t— _didn’t_— exactly make for the ideal living situation, it was still _somewhere_ for you to go. A place for you to catch your breath and patch yourself up between friend-making escapades. Escapades which, now that you come to think of it, were more often scary and life-threatening than not. _Why_ did you feel such a need to go on so many of them!? To meet so many _people_? Two or three would have been nice. Two or three would have been _fine_. But now you’re in a situation where you’ve not only been scarred and wounded far more than you ever needed to be, but you’ve _also_ managed to endanger a far greater number of people by the simple virtue of being yourself, i.e. an alien.

You think you might be freaking out, a little bit, but you’re too busy freaking out to really notice.

Your hive is gone. The drones know your face. They know your blood color. They know you aren’t a troll, which, honestly, thought was pretty obvious, and apparently you being not-a-troll is a bigger security issue than you realized, considering the fact that the ruler of the planet has deigned to yeet herself across the entire galaxy just to squish you. What an honor, except oh, wait, what’s that? _THEY’RE HUNTING DOWN SOME OF YOUR **FRIENDS**, TOO??_

Your stomach lurches at the memory of seeing that news bulletin air live on the tv in Galekh’s loungeblock, lines and lines of accusing red text followed by four familiar signs. Ardata. Cirava. Marvus. _Tirona_. Oh, poor little Tirona. You hadn’t seen the look on her face when her sign flashed across the screen. You didn’t want to see the light die in her eyes.

All this because you forced your way into their lives. None of them wanted or needed a friend like you, and look where it’s got them! They didn’t ask for you, and now they’re going to lose everything—ranks, futures, careers, reputations, not to mention their actual _lives_. Well, maybe not Ardata or Marvus, but the other two are very much in peril. Tirona, at the very least, is safe for now, if anyone actively pursued by imperial murderbots for treason can really be called “safe”.

The others you’d called using one of Boldir’s phones immediately after seeing the bulletin. Calling both Ardata and Marvus had led to you getting sent straight to voicemail, although Marvus had texted you a little ;o) and a couple of emojis earlier that morning. You guess that means he’s fine? Of course, someone could have taken his phone, but the completely unfathomable combination of emojis has too much of his energy to have been replicated.

As for Cirava, you’d gotten no answer from them on either text, call, or even Chittr dms. You’re very worried for their safety in particular; out of all your friends—if you even have those after all this—they’re probably among the most isolated. You’ve tried to introduce them to some of your other friends, which had, in a few cases, had actually quite fruitful, although all the resulting interactions had been online-based. Only after you’d come to know Cirava better had you realized how unusual it was that you’d actually been _invited_ _into their hive_.

Which makes you feel even worse about their current situation. They’d let you into their hive and their trust, offering kindness, companionship, and solidarity, and how had you repaid them? You’ve brought about what is literally the worst-case scenario for them. Some friend you are. At the very least, you hadn’t seen any announcement of them having been captured, but that was hardly comforting when the search was still very much underway.

Not to mention this: even if they—or any of the others, for that matter— manage to evade capture, what then? Where the hell are they even supposed to go? This planet is all they have right now, at least until they become adults, and that’s a long time coming. A little less for some than others, but the fact remains that the empress will touch down _long_ before then.

The fact of the matter is this: everything would have turned so much better if you hadn’t shown up. If you hadn’t been hanging around, the planet’s rulers could just have dismissed what happened to the moon as a freak accident. But now, because you’re here, and because you got yourself found out at the literal worst possible fucking time, the entire planet’s in a panic over being invaded, and the genocidal empress is sailing on home, putting your friends in way more danger than they were in already.

It’s all your fault.

It’s all your fault it’s all your fault it’s all your _fault_ it’s _all your fault it’s all your fault it’sallyourfaultit’sallyour_

You’re beginning to find it harder and harder to breathe. Abruptly, you sit up, flinging off the snuggleplanes, plans of sleeping well and truly aborted. You guess you shouldn’t be surprised your internal clock is all messed up after being passed out for half a night, but hey, you gave it a fair shot.

However, you not being able to sleep means you’ll have to find another distraction from the horrible numbness seeping into the core of you. Maybe food? Food sounds good. Food sounds great.

You carefully slide off the loungeplank and onto the floor, snagging one of the blankets on your way down. Wrapped in the blanket, you make your way across the loungeblock and into the hall.

The house is still and quiet, for the most part. As you begin to make your way down the hall, you hear a familiar sound emanating from the guestblock right next door to you— a low, rumbly noise, like a half-snore half-purr. You can’t help but smile, despite your current bout of malaise. Your ashen quadrantmates had staunchly refused to leave you alone, even after Tyzias had patiently pointed out that such large gathering of trolls from all different castes could be seen as highly suspicious if discovered and that most of them really ought to head on home.

The door to the guestblock isn’t fully shut, so you creep a little closer and peer in through the crack between the door and the frame.

When your eyes adjust to dim light of the room, lit only by the glowing circular panels on the sides of the recuperacoons, you have to stifle a chuckle at the sight. Galekh had so painstakingly and resignedly gone and set up a spare a recuperacoon in the guestblock so that there’d be one for each of them. Predictably, the spare recuperacoon sits ignored in the corner, the two duelists having opted to share one. For a pair of battle-hardened fighters, they sure are cuddly.

For a moment, you’re half tempted to slip inside and crawl into the unused recuperacoon. But no, perhaps not today. You like recuperacoons just fine for short naps, but you’ve never quite gotten the hang of actually sleeping in one. Besides, you still want your midafternoon snack.

You close the door as quietly as you can and continue to tiptoe down the hall. The hive is much quieter now, on account of most of the trolls having headed back to their homes. The jades (plus Karako) were the first group to leave, which wasn’t surprising, considering how demanding their caste duties are. Boldir had left sometime around 11PM, giving you a tight hug and one of her spare palmhusks before slipping out one of the ground-floor windows, muttering something about time shenanigans as she went. You think Diemen left a little while after that, saying something about not wanting to miss a date (??????). The teals (minus Tirona) had gradually waned in number over time as impending appointments and deadlines made themselves known to them via a cacophony of palmhusk alerts. The last to go had been Tagora, who’d given you one of his fonder handshakes and ruffled Tirona’s hair once before leaving. What a sweetheart.

Charun you have no clue about. They kind of tend to come and go as they please, cryptid-like, and so you actually have no idea as to whether they went home or not. Come to think of it, weren’t they the first one to find you? Damn, you owe them big time. You make a mental note to thank them profusely whenever you seen them next.

Mallek had decided to stay behind as well, for some reason, which still seems pretty confusing to you. The guy “=hella busy” and pretty much has to work 24/7 on his codes, so why would he want to stick around now that things are calming down? Heh, maybe the guy just wanted to see what it felt like to sleep in a clean hive for once. Mallek might just be the only troll to have a messier hive than yours, and _he_ doesn’t have the excuse of said hive being a literal junkpile. Honestly, you don’t know how Snakedad does it.

You’re half-tempted to go check up on him, but for some reason, the thought makes your heart do a weird little flipflop inside your chest. You shrug it off and continue making your way to the mealblock.

You find that Galekh’s stash of guilt snacks has been thoroughly eviscerated, which you honestly aren’t too surprised by. Still, you manage to scrounge up some stale biscotti from the tin near the kettle. You perch on the edge of the counter, blanket still wrapped around you, slowly munching your way through the cookie. Dryness aside, it’s actually a lot better than you expected, though it does little to assuage the peculiar hollowness inside your chest. At the very least, you feel like you’re calming down somewhat, swinging your legs idly over the edge of the counter as you eat.

About three-quarters of the way through your second cookie, your thoughts begin to drift back to your current situation. You do your best to push aside the panic and instead concentrate on the facts, which are these:

  1. You are homeless and injured.

Which isn’t really that big a deal. It’s basically how you spent a good chunk of your time after first arriving on the planet. What’s different this time around is this:

  1. The empire believes you are a threat, to the point where even the ruler is getting involved.

Of all the days for the moon to explode, it just _had_ to be the exact same day the drones finally got you, huh? Well, okay, it didn’t _explode_, but clearly something had to have struck it for there to be a new crater of that size.

You wonder, idly, if maybe it really _was_ aliens that did it. Wouldn’t that be a wild fucking plot twist?

But anyways, you’re getting sidetracked. What’s important is that the empire thinks it was _you_ who did it. Even worse, they think you had accomplices. As best you can tell, all of your friends are safe right now, but the longer as you remain at large, the more digging the drones are going to do on you and the life you’ve built over these past few perigees, potentially putting even more of your friends at peril.

There _has_ to be a way for you to fix this, somehow. Maybe you could break off all contact with your friends and go into hiding? That way you’d all be safe.

…No, that wouldn’t work, and you know it. You’ve already been seen interacting with other trolls. If you vanish out of nowhere, the empire might start interrogating people in an attempt to root out other potential traitors. Which brings you to the third and final fact:

  1. Every single one of your friends, without exception, is in mortal danger right now.

Regardless of whether or not you run or hide or stay, the damage is done. By talking to these people, by being with them, by having their contact details in your phone, you’ve effectively doomed every last one of them. You feel another stab of cold between your ribs, and the awful doubts you’d tried to shove down come surging back— the thought that perhaps you’ve been deluding yourself all this time, and that most of your current friends might not really need your friendship at all, that they're all just taking pity— of the platonic variety— on some pathetic, simpering little creature unable to fend for itself. After all, all you’ve really done is take up their time and space. If _any_ of them was in your hypothetical shoes right now, what would you have been able to do for them in return? Get culled right along with them?

A soft _thwop_ temporarily snaps you from your downward spiral. You look down and realize you dropped your half-eaten biscotti. The brittle cookie lies broken in several pieces on Galekh’s nice clean mealblock floor.

You stare blankly at the remains of your snack. Perhaps, if you were one of those people who turn into existential poets in the middle of the day, you could see some kind of powerful metaphor there among the wreckage.

You grab a napkin and hop off the counter to clean it up.

The floor isn’t really that dirty, but you’re nauseous enough that don’t really think you could bring yourself to eat any more, so you wrap the intact pieces of biscotti in a napkin and tuck it into your hoodie pocket. You can probably feed it to Goatdad later. He’ll like that.

You try not to think about the fact that you staying in this house means you’re putting dear, sweet, precious Goatdad in danger too.

You fail to not think about it.

You pull up the collar of your hoodie and scream in frustration.

Everything about this is unbearable. You’re tired and you’re achy and you feel like you’re going to throw up. The very fact of your existence is causing problems for everyone you know and love and care about, and every second you spend around them only makes things worse.

You slowly gather the blanket around yourself from where it’d slipped off your shoulders and start trudging miserably back to the loungeblock. You don’t feel any more tired than before—physically, at least—but there’s little else you can do. There’s nothing you can _ever_ do. Can’t fight the drones, can’t hack the databases, can’t even _run_ because they’ll just keep looking for you, especially when the empress—

You freeze just as you’re about to crawl back into the little hollow of blankets of cushions on the loungeplank.

The empress.

You can go to the empress.

Your mind whirls. If you go to the empress, she won’t have any reason to go after your friends. Why would she, if she already has _you, _the alien spy?

The excitement sours when you realize that you’ll need to stay hidden until she arrives, a burden on your friends’ hospitality and safety. But hey, they’ll probably be so sick of you in three wipes’ time that it’ll only make you leaving all the more painless. It’s a win-win. Or a win-win-win? Just a ton of winning all around. The drones will stop looking for you, the demand for your friends’ capture will go down so long as you play your cards right and deny any associations with them, and your partners—

The elation rising in you plummets, suddenly and sharply, as you remember your quadrantmates.

Konyyl and Azdaja…it was rough, at the beginning, back when vacillation was a touchy word between them and neither really wanted to admit to what they really needed from each other. But they’ve come so far since then. They’d be just fine without you.

And Polypa…

With Polypa it’s…complicated, for lack of a better word. You still hang out together, just the two of you, watching movies together on your phone or on her old husktop. Occasionally, there will be shooshpapping, but then she’ll leave abruptly on a job and by the time you next see her it feels too late to bring it up and really talk about what it means to the both of you. A part of you wonders if it’s all just a ludicrous extension of the fake-dating scheme, just in case she needs a convincing enough moirail. Another part of you wonders if it’s just a casual fling, a no-strings, no-words-needed kind of deal. It’s really hard to tell.

If you gave yourself up, would it hurt her?

You shiver involuntarily. Polypa can be hard to read, but you like to think you know her well enough that you can tell she’s genuinely fond of you. Could be platonic, could be something else, it’s hard to say for sure. But she’s strong, perhaps the strongest person you’ve ever known. If you giving yourself up somehow hurts her, she’ll survive it. Hell, it might even be the least out of all the things she’s had to overcome.

You love your friends. Regardless of whether any of them really need you in their lives, you truly love them— which is why you need to do this. They’ve helped you, cared for you, kept you safe from harm, and you’re determined to do the same.

Three wipes. Three wipes, and you’re going to fix this. You’re going to fix _everything._

* * *

Your name is CHARUN KROJIB and uh. You think maybe some guy’s goat lusus followed you home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mspar: *wakes up feeling like their soul’s been scooped out and wondering how many of their friendships are actually real and authentic*  
mspar: huh. guess I must be hungry  
-  
Honorary mentions in the loungeplank Olympics, based on what I’ve been able to deduce from squinting at friendsim backgrounds for half an hour:
> 
> Vikare’s couch: looks really soft and comfy. B-tier experience due to Vikare keeping MSPAR up for half the day with his airplane-building in the backyard.  
Cirava’s couch: looks very poofy, and located in the same room Cirava does his streams. A-tier for comfort and chill lo-fi ambiance, kept from S-tier only because of the vape stank.  
Ardata’s couch: surprisingly normal-looking. appears quite spacious and comfortable. Most likely on the higher end of the C tier just because MSPAR probably doesn’t like to stay there too often.  
The armchair in Marvus’ dressing room: looks kind of generically comfortable, but who even KNOWS where that’s been. MSPAR probably slept there, like, once and then never again. F tier.  
Elwurd’s couch: we only see the back of it, but it’s pretty spacious and Elwurd seems to have a pretty nice apartment, so…B tier? Assuming that Elwurd isn’t constantly blasting music in the next room, which brings it down to a C.  
Zebruh: has some couches, I guess. MSPAR doesn’t really know what they’re like, seeing as they’ve never once slept in his house. Z tier.


	34. Of Doubts, Discoveries, and Daring Escapes

Your name is ZEBEDE TONGVA and you are at a complete loss. 

The smiling bumblebees that adorn the needles of the wall clock in your mealblock seem to mock you as they tick steadily forward, from 4:46PM to 4:58PM to 5:09PM, ceaseless and ruthless in their flight. Well, okay, technically not ceaseless, since the batteries in the clock are going to have to die at some point, but the _point_ is that time’s a-wasting and you have literally no idea what it is you’re going to cook for breakfast.

Grubcakes seems like a safe option, right? Everybody loves grubcakes. They’re a total classic. But no, wait, what if one of them doesn’t like grubcakes? Or maybe they’re on a diet where they’re trying not to eat too many carbs? Maybe you should make some other stuff on the side, just in case. Having side options would be pretty safe, and besides, one batch of grubcakes probably won’t be enough for five trolls. You could probably whip up some grublettes with some fried oblong meat product on the side, that’s pretty easy.

You’re about to go to open the thermal hull for ingredients when you freeze. Oh no, what about allergies? You don’t know any of their allergies. Skylla’s probably fine, you’ve had her grubcakes before and it didn’t seem like she needed to make any substitutions, but what about the others? You’re pretty well-versed in lore on you-know-who— who you are choosing not to think too hard about being just two rooms away because you might let out an involuntary screech and wake up everybody in the hive— but even _you_ don’t know if they have any food allergies, let alone the other two. What if one of them is allergic to cluckbeast eggs? Or moobeast extract? Or the flour? Then all the food will have gone to waste, and it’ll be super awkward and weird.

At this point you’re just pacing circles around the mealblock floor. What should you do?? You’d like to ask Miss Skylla for advice, but she’d had to hurry back to her farm just in case the drones stopped by there, too. She _said_ she’d be back by evening, though. Maybe you could call her? No, it’s still too early in the night. You don’t want to wake her up with stupid questions. You HAVE to figure this out, and soon— it’s almost evening.

Okay, so, um…you’ve never really had people over before. Okay, no, you’ve had people over, obviously, but not _over-_over, like staying _overday_ over. Well, no, that’s not true either. Your little alien buddy stayed over a couple wipes ago, right? You’d offered them your recuperacoon, like, a million times, but they just kept _insisting_ they’d sleep on the loungeplank instead. Something about humans just…not _getting_ daymares outside of sopor? Or at least, not at the same frequency, they’d reflected aloud. Which was honestly kind of confusing. Getting daymares outside of sopor is just a thing that _happens_, a fact as simple as not being able to breathe underwater without gills. The alien saying they only get them occasionally is like…the equivalent of a troll saying they _sometimes_ can breathe underwater and sometimes just can’t. It makes no sense! Still, they were so insistent that you’d eventually just kind of let them do what they wanted.

You still feel really bad about it. They _said_ aliens like them don’t get daymares like trolls, but you’re not so sure. What if they actually did? What if they actually got even _worse _daymares than trolls and just didn’t tell you because they thought it would be too much trouble? After all, that’s probably what you would have done if _you_ looked like an alien and you had to sleep over at someone else’s hive. Oh, boy, you really should have pushed harder for them to take the ‘coon. Ugh, you’re so _bad_ at this! If you can’t even be a good host for one single human, how are you supposed to handle having three trolls over? This is going to be a complete disaster.

You sneak another peek at the wall clock and are dismayed to see the smiling bees dictate the time as 5:26PM. Ohhh boy. The moons are _definitely_ rising by now. You really should start figuring out what it is you’re going to make.

Then again, your guests are in super bad shape. Even a night in sopor won’t fix all that straightaway, right? Probably. Hopefully, they’ll sleep in long enough that you can—

You freeze mid-pace at the sound of a loud _thunk_ followed by a crash.

Then, nothing.

In the stillness, the sound of your pumpbiscuit beating is deafening as your level of anxiety leaps from around somewhere around 63 straight to 100. You can feel droplets of sweat gathering at your temple as you stand frozen in the middle of your mealblock, straining to hear if the person in the hallway has started moving again.

A few seconds pass, and nothing happens. You can hear your own breathing, now, escaping you in quick bursts. You try and force yourself to slowly exhale and inhale a few times to keep yourself steady. Your eyes shoot over to the clock. 5:33PM. It’s still so _early_. How could any of them be up right now?

The beaming little bumblebee on the tip of the longer needle creeps forward with a little _tick_ that seems to rock the silent hive. Still nothing.

Okay. Okay. So one of your unexpected guests is up way earlier than you expected. Probably. Either that or it’s your lusus, but Wombatdad doesn’t normally knock things over, and now that you think about it, that crash sounded an awful lot more like a _troll_ hitting the ground.

Why _now? _You’re really not ready for this, you’re still in pyjama pants and an old sweatshirt, and you haven’t even decided what you were going to make for breakfast yet, not to mention— what if— what if it’s—

The whole world grinds to a halt, and complete terror floods your thinkpan.

_What if it’s _them_?_

You swallow hard. This isn’t at _all_ how you wanted it to go. You were hoping maybe you’d get to meet them at a convention, or a concert, or maybe—just maybe—at a little hangout with your nice mutual friend. Not like _this_, in the darkened hallway of your plain little hive at 5:36 in the early evening. You feel a flush of mortification already creeping up your neck.

You know you can’t just stay here, though. From the sound of it, _whoever_-it-is might be hurt, which wouldn’t be great considering how beat-up they were when you and Miss Skylla pulled their bodies from the crash. For all you know, your idol— _someone—_ could be bleeding out from reopened wounds in the middle of your hallway. You have to do _something_, even if your hair isn’t brushed and your fangs are probably sticking out weird and your face is—

You quickly step out into the hall before the rising wave of self-deprecation inside your thinkpan has a chance to properly crash over you, and flick on one of the hall lamps. It illuminates the prone form of someone who is decidedly _not_ the person you were thinking of, and you feel a surge of overwhelming relief (and maybe the tiniest twinge of disappointment, but mostly relief). It’s the pilot, the one from the crash. He’s sprawled facedown in a mess of limbs and cut flowers, the source of which is lying upended by his head. From the looks of it, his horn must have hooked on the handle of one of the hanging baskets that decorate your hive and jerked him back, sending both him and the basket tumbling. Which doesn’t surprise you too much, since the hive was built with _your_ height taken into consideration and—

Wait, hold on, wasn’t this the guy with the broken arm?!

You rush forward and grab the guy’s shoulders, with the intention of turning him over to lie on his back instead of his front. It takes a bit of effort, but you manage it. The bronzeblood’s face is unobscured, as you and Skylla had removed his helmet so that the broken glass shards from the lenses wouldn’t fall into his ganderbulbs, and so you can clearly see the dazed, pained expression on his face. The sling that keeps his broken arm secured tightly to his chest _looks_ okay, but you can’t say for sure whether the bones were further damaged when he fell. You’re going to need to check on it.

“um,” you say, eloquently, “are you ok?”

You get a small, pained grunt in response.

Stupid stupid stupid!! Of COURSE he’s not okay! He’s got a broken arm! How are you so—

The bronzeblood’s eyes crack open, then, squinting up at you. Then, to your surprise, he smiles “~Why, I’m just dandy, my good fellow.~” he says, the words slurring together a little. “~And how might you be?~”

“um. im ok.” You’re not really sure of how to respond to that.

“~Why, that’s positively smashing news. I am just terribly sorry about your flowers. I must say I’m feeling rather zozzled at the present moment, although normally I wouldn’t even dream of touching the ol’ sunshine. How irrensponsible of me!~” He makes an effort to sit up, wincing as he does so. You hesitantly go to put a hand on his back to support him as he does so. This is honestly a situation you’re not really well-equipped to handle.

He beams at you. It’s blinding.

“~Why, thank you!~” His eyes land on your sweatshirt, then, and they light up so fast you could’ve sworn he had psionics. “~OH! Do my eyes deceive me, or is that from the H2D limited-edition mystery box merchandise event?~”

OH? A FELLOW STAN?

For a brief moment you consider not answering him—you don’t know him, he was being pursed by drones, he could be dangerous, etc etc—but the moment passes and your thinkpan automatically switches from social anxiety mode straight into H2D fan mode. “omg yesssz, it iz!!”

“~Ah-ha! I just knew it! I’d recognize that logo variant anywhere!~”

“ikr?! itz sooo much cooler than their usual one, i mean that onez fine but it doesnt have the neon flame decalz yanno??”

“~Indeed! Oh, I think I have the logo pin I got from that event with me, it should be right—~”

You see him pat his sides with his good hand, looking for pockets that aren’t there, then look down, as though for the first time realizing that something is wrong. A lot of things wrong, in fact. He looks down at himself, brow furrowing at the sling and the undoubtedly unfamiliar shirt— you and Miss Skylla had had to remove the old one to get his arm set properly. Then he looks up and all around, at the hive, at the closed curtains from which a few fading rays of sun gleam at the edges, and then directly at you.

“~…What exactly happened to me?~”

Ohhhh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy. Just when you thought the situation couldn’t get any more complicated. How does he not remember what happened? He was flying the ship! Oh shoot, does he have head trauma? Does he have _AMNESIA?_ Outside of movies, you have no _idea_ how to deal with folks who have amnesia. What are you even supposed to do? _You_ don’t even know what happened, besides a ship pursued by drones crashing right down on the edge of the bee combs.

This is going to tough. You’ll have to proceed carefully.

“well, uh…what do you remember?” you try, adjusting your position so that you’re sat cross-legged beside him.

His brow knits, and he looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “~Hm!~”

He looks like he’s seriously thinking about it, which is making you more and more nervous by the second. You already have barely any idea of what’s going on, of how you ended up with a crashed shuttlepod on your property and three injured trolls in your hive. And then the drones…

The drones had shown up barely five minutes after Miss Skylla had managed to pull the bodies from the wreckage, slap on some hasty first-aid, and help you stow them down in the honey cellar— which, at the time, you had _no_ _idea_ if it was actually deep enough to mask their thermal readings, only that it was your best shot at doing so. You were so stressed that you hadn’t even _recognized_ you-know-who among the bodies, focusing instead on keeping your hands steady as you stitched together the worst of the gashes.

You remember the ice-cold fear seeping into your bones when you heard one of the drones boom out your name, requesting that the registered owner of the hive come out and submit themselves for questioning. You remember exchanging a look with your friend, seeing the grim determination in her eyes, and you knew you just couldn’t let her down.

The actual encounter had been mercifully short. It basically equated to them asking you if you knew anything about the crashed ship or its vanished inhabitants, which you denied, although you probably weren’t all too convincing. The whole time, all you could do was stare at the drones’ huge, clawed strutpods, just a few meters away from your poor, poor apiary. If either drone had decided to take just one step over to the left, they might have…

You shudder. The poor bees have already gone through so much just in the last _night_. As soon as things start settling down, you’ve definitely gotta start patching up the combs that fell earlier.

“~I remember…” The bronzeblood’s voice draws your attention back to him. “~I was fixing a ship. Nothing too ritzy, just a standard cruiser-to-cruiser shuttle, good for a dozen lightyears maybe. Nifty little thing it was. And then…~” His eyes seem to glaze over for a moment, and then he returns. “~I say, I’m afraid I just can’t remember. I believe there was a crash, but…~” He trails off.

You’re in shock. How does the _pilot_ not remember _flying the ship?? _What is going on here? Why were this guy and that cerulean and _Cirava freaking Hermod—_

When his eyes meet yours this time, you can see he’s just as perturbed as you are, if not a bit more than that. “~ I don’t suppose you could tell me how I got here? ~”

You tell him the progression of the events as you saw them—the crash (he looks visibly dismayed), the other trolls with him (he looks concerned), the drones that came knocking just a few minutes after presumably shooting them out of the sky (he looks alarmed, but not at all surprised). When you finish, he asks you if he can see the ship.

Carefully, with you supporting him, he manages to stand. Immediately you can tell why this guy ran face-first into one of the hanging baskets. He’s just _tall_. His head doesn’t quite hit the ceiling of your hive, but it probably would if he stood on his tippy toes. Agh, you should have made the ceilings higher. Then again, you never really anticipated having much company over, not even when you first got the place and saw how far it was from all the other hives in the suburbs of Outglut.

You’ve considered moving, once or twice; still, you can’t abandon your bees. This area has been really, really beneficial for them in terms of climate and pollen sources, and besides, if you really needed social interactions, that’s what the internet is for, right? No need to crowd the place with people you actually think are cool and make it even easier for you to embarrass yourself.

Well, until now, that is.

The bronzeblood—Vikare, he clarifies—actually lets a few tears fall as he looks through the window at the shuttlepod still squatting in your yard. The damage is made clear in the light of the rising moons— viewports smashed, sides dented, the entire structure tilted at a precarious angle. You kind of just stand next to him with what you hope is a comforting presence, unsure of what to do or say, as his shoulders tremble with silent sobs.

Fortunately, you’re spared having to humiliate yourself with some unskilled attempt at comfort. Vikare wipes his eyes with his good arm in a quick, efficient motion before turning away from the window.

“~Your hive is just lovely! ~” he remarks, in a tone full of false cheer, and you agree, because he seems like a nice guy and you really don’t want to see him to cry again.

The two of you end up back in the mealblock, talking about the recent H2D album over two mugs of instant coffee and some digestives. Vikare seems a lot livelier with some food and drink in him, to your relief. Out of all three of the trolls in the wreck, he’d been in the worst shape of all of them, with two broken ribs, one broken arm, and heavy bruising over his chest and back. To make matters even worse, the hive had only one recuperacoon which, it being you-sized, was _definitely_ not going to fit him.

In the end, you and Miss Skylla had ended up putting him in your ablution basin and covering him with the chilled sopor patches you keep in your thermal hull in case of bee stings. The patches aren’t too big, but you covered him in every single one you could find, and you’re relieved to see the guy looking a lot better, with the exception of his arm.

Now, as for the other two…

You feel an odd twist in your acid tract as your thoughts turn to the two other trolls, both placed securely into your recuperacoon. You still can’t quite wrap your head around it. Cirava Hermod. Cirava _freaking_ Hermod. In _your_ hive. You don’t know whether to scream or faint or die. Like, you’ve always kind of sort of wanted to meet them, you know, _hypothetically_, but like. _You_? Actually existing in the same physical space as them? It seems impossible. You’d probably just vaporize on the spot.

Anyways, you and Vikare end up getting into a discussion on the hidden symbolism in one of the very first H2D music videos, and a point of dispute arises regarding the color of backup dancers’ suit jacket lining during the fifth scene. You could _swear_ it was purple, but the other troll insists it was blue, waving a biscuit for emphasis.

Fortunately, all debate is dropped immediately when you open your palmhusk to look it up and immediately see a brand-new imperial bulletin calling for the immediate capture of all three of your unexpected houseguests for treason.

You drop the palmhusk on the table without meaning to, prongs having gone slack in shock. You can feel a wave of panic rising in you. They’re _fugitives_. Of _course _they are, how could you have been so stupid?? A crashed ship, gunned down by drones? What other explanation could there _be?_ Does this mean you’re complicit in a crime now? Are they going to take you away? The drones know where you live, what if they come back and you’re too late too hide everyone and they go after the bees? Your psionics are more communion-based than offensive— they’re pretty effective for dealing with trolls, but they won’t be enough to stop _drones._ And hold on, what does this mean about you stanning Cirava? Are they… are they _problematic_ now?

“~--bede? Zebede?~”

Oh, right, Vikare is still here. Well, there goes your chance of making friends with a fellow H2Der irl. Even if he wasn’t a super dangerous fugitive, he’s probably not going to want to be friends with a sad dumb moron who trusted a bunch of strangers and then had a nervous breakdown about their fave internet celeb being highkey problematic.

“~ Good golly, man, are you alright? You look awful! ~”

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Does this make _you_ problematic for liking them? Are you going to have to unstan? What does this mean for your fan accounts? Your art blog? Your fanfics? Oh, you spent so long on those fanfics. Are you…are you going to have to _delete_ all the stuff you did about them? Destroy all those long hours of effort? You could always just take them down, but if they’re still on your computer, the empire could still find them. Oh, and you’d just started a really cool digital painting of them…

Two things happen, then.

One is that Vikare reaches across the little table in the mealblock to gently shake you by the shoulder, which yanks you back into reality just in time to notice the _second _thing.

Your palmhusk starts ringing, “Miss Skylla” on the caller id.

Skylla! Oh, she’ll know what to do for sure. You grab the husk and answer, putting it on speaker. “mizz skylla! d-did you make it back to your hive ok??”

“_not exactlyy.” _Skylla’s voice is unusually harsh, and there’s a crackle that suggests she’s talking very close to the speaker. “_spotted some bandits out on the prowl on myy wayy back.”_

“omg are you ok?!”

A laugh, though it sounds bitter and forced. “_don’t yyou worryy ‘bout me, kiddo. sonnyy here—” –_a little _yip_ sounds from close by, followed by frantic shushing— “_sniffed ‘em out a wayys back. we managed to hunker down for a bit until they passed. but listen, zee…i got a good look at some of their nets when they went byy.”_

A pause, and then six words that paralyze you on the spot.

“_zee, yyou seen yyour lusus recentlyy?”_

* * *

yOuR nAmE iS bArZuM aNd bAiZlI sOlEiL aNd YoU rEaLly MiSs YoUr LuSuS.

THEY WERE _SUPPOSED_ TO COME YESTERNIGHT, JUST LIKE THEY DO EVERY WEEK. BUT THEY NEVER CAME. ACCORDING TO SISTER MAENAD, THEY GOT IN TROUBLE AND MIGHT NOT BE COMING BY THE CHURCH FOR A “GOOD LONG MOTHERFUCKIN’ WHILE”.

however. sister maenad is not your lusus. sister maenad is your teacher. that means you don’t have to obey her all the time, just most of the time, because she is very big and very scary.

BUT ANYWAYS. YOU'VE DECIDED YOU’RE GOING TO SNEAK OUT AND GO LOOK FOR THEM, BECAUSE THEY _PROMISED_ THEY WERE GONNA COME TODAY AND YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BREAK PROMISES. PEOPLE WHO BREAK PROMISES GET BROKEN BONES.

you aren’t gonna break your lusus’ bones though. that would probably kill them, instantly. but you _could _ bother them until they say sorry for not coming.

THEY'RE ALWAYS SAYING SORRY.

they’re so silly. you only need to say it one time!

TOYS ARE BETTER THAN JUST SAYING SORRY. YOU SHOULD ASK FOR A NEW TOY.

maybe if you tell them you were sad and crying, they’ll get you a new toy.

nO, _TwO_ nEw ToYs!

but first you need to get out. your shared room is at the tippy-top of the church. it’s just a bit of attic sister maenad partitioned off from the rest, but it’s pretty nice, especially with all the cool stuff your lusus brings you.

YOU AREN’T ALLOWED TO LEAVE THE CHURCH UNSUPERVISED. SOMETHING SOMETHING MUTATION SOMETHING SOMETHING COULD GET IN TROUBLE BY YOURSELVES SOMETHING SOMETHING BLAH BLAH BLAH. WHATEVER! YOU’RE A BIG TROLL. YOU CAN HANDLE IT.

maybe.

DEFINITELY.

hopefully.

ABSOLUTELY.

pRoBaBlY.

without further ado, you take the ropes you’ve made out of knotted handkerchiefs in all different colors. you’d told the sister you needed them for the act you were practicing for the big show on the day of delight.

HEH. WHAT A SILLY THOUGHT. YOU CAN DO *WAY* COOLER STUFF THAN _HANDKERCHIEF_ TRICKS.

you carefully tie the ends of the ropes around the legs of your bed, tie the other end to your waist, then tie the other end of the other rope to your other waist, and clamber carefully out the window

JUST IN TIME

to be spotted by sister maenad, walking right up to the church.

fUcK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I always forget which of these quirks use correct grammar and which don't. What are quirks you genuinely enjoy reading and/or writing?


	35. Of Deductions, Deliberation, and Deadlines

Your name is ALLEVE VITAAL, and you have never hated your job more than you do now.

Matter of fact, you struggle to remember if there was ever a time you _didn’t_ hate your job. Sometimes you’ll hear your coworkers groan and joke about the “good ol’ nights”. The thought almost makes you laugh. “Good old nights”. Heh. As far as you remember, there never _were_ any good nights. Just the same routine, night after night, hour after hour. If there was ever a time you felt differently, that part of you is long gone, suffocated in red tape and cigar fumes and hundred-page memos that all look the same. It’s pathetic, clinging to nostalgia for a time that never was. If your colleagues only stopped to really think about it, they’d realize what they craved wasn’t the way things used to be, but the way _they_ used to be, naïve and hopeful and genuinely happy to serve their empire. Back when what powered them was _real_ enthusiasm and passion and not caffeine and little bottles of monthly-issued pills with labels claiming to “enhance” the user’s natural telepathic abilities, but which really just made you more sick and nauseous than anything else.

Worse still, the pills clash real badly with most painkillers, or at least the ones you can afford on your current salary. You know _that_ from experience. A couple experiences, in fact. So when you’re fresh off a three-hour inquisition session and your pan’s splitting like a rotten nectarfruit oozing on the ground, well, nothing to be done about it. You just go back to work and finish the rest of your shift like a good little stooge. Rinse and repeat.

And you got used to it. You had to. Sure, you _hated_ it, but that hate was more like background noise than anything else, a low buzz superimposed over the dreary slog that was your life as an imperial detecquisitor. Even the fact that the daily shifts were ten hours and not a satisfying number like eight creased to irk you after the first two sweeps. So you logged your hours and typed your memos and reviewed your cases without one word of complaint. Patience, you knew, was the key. Bide your time. Keep a clean record. Make yourself useful. Prove to the higher-ups that you can be a good little pawn. Hope that one of them puts in a good word for you, gives you a little nudge up the ladder.

You were so _close_. Just half a sweep left until the bi-sweeply conscription, when they’d pick you up for your Ordeals. _Then_ you could finally escape this shitstack of a planet and this dead-end government job and start working your way up to becoming the best damn tactyrant this sad heap of an empire’s ever seen.

Bitterness coats your tongue, and you realize you’ve bitten down on your cheap tobacco flute. You release your jaws and grind it viciously into the nearest ashtray, taking some satisfaction in watching each tiny glowing pinprick wink out.

Damn it. _Damn_ it all.

You couldn’t have known something like this was going to happen. That extraterrestrials would attack the planet _now_, when you’re this close. Or that your superiors would tell _you_ to take the lead on the case, forcing you into the spotlight and putting your entire career on the line.

Who knew being reliable could backfire on you like this?

Sure, it might be a great opportunity for you to prove yourself. But in a case as serious as this, the consequences of failure far outweigh the benefits of success. If you fail, you’ll be setting back _sweeps_ of progress. It won’t be a stain on your spotless record so much as it will be splattering the whole thing in your own blood. Which is hardly even a metaphor, considering what will most likely happen to you if the empress arrives and your team still hasn’t found the alien spy.

You catch yourself gritting your teeth so hard your skull is beginning to creak. You force yourself to take a few sharp breaths in and out through your cartilaginous nub until your jaws relax. _Calm down._ You tell yourself. _You can’t run from this. You’ve got three wipes to catch an alien spy hiding somewhere in Outglut. It’s just one city. You have time. You have resources. _Use_ them._

_ Now, what will you do? _

The next steps are clear. By now, the forensics team should be done examining the articles recovered from the hive. Once you and the other detecquisitors get their hands on them, you can start profiling and looking for anything that can be traced to specific allies or safehouses. Judging by the size of the box the drones had brought in, there isn’t going to be much to work with, but at least it’s _something_.

It’s going to be a hell of a strange case, that’s for sure. Who even knows if an alien’s psychology is anything like a troll’s? How much of their psyche will you be able accurately piece together from just their belongings? From what you’ve seen of them so far in materials recovered by the media specialists, they appear to be humanoid and possess the ability to communicate with trolls, but still…there’s a lot of uncertainty there. What their plans are, what they think of your planet, what they’re going to do next. It makes your skin crawl. You despise uncertainty. _Especially _uncertainty pertaining the contents of other people’s heads.

Your palmhusk beeps, then, alerting you to the end of your five-minute break. You smooth out your uniform out of habit and walk over to the door of the smoking area. A shame you hadn’t gotten to finish your tobacco flute, but hey, you’ve been meaning to quit soon anyways. If you’re to become a leader, you’ll need to cultivate a specific image, and smoking might suggest chemical dependency. Although, the hard-boiled aspect of it might serve to benefit you. Perhaps one of those “vape” things the kids are into lately? Would that be a good compromise? Hm. You’ll need to do some research.

You walk down the hall towards the shared office space. As you approach, the sound of raised voices grows louder and louder. Which is a thing that tends to happen whenever you have more than one cerulean in a room and there’s a job to be done, except that you’re pretty sure there are more voices than the number of people in your divison.

You open the door just in time to see an entire computer terminal flying directly at your head.

You don’t even have the energy to be surprised. It’s truly amazing how shenanigans will find a way to transpire even in the direst of national security crises. A shame, too. Those computers are expensive, or so you hear.

Before you can draw your weapon, the terminal halts in midair half a foot from your head. You turn your head and see one of the rustblood security guards standing in the hall just a few feet away from you, one hand extended. She nods at you, once. You return it. No need for unnecessary words. It is her job, after all. Still, as you sidestep the floating device to enter the whirling shitstorm that is the office, you take a careful look at the caste sign on her uniform. Useful people are, in your opinion, far and few between. You like to know where they are.

It’s another half-hour wasted before the situation even _starts _to cool down. From what you’re able to glean between at the yelling and cursing and threats of bodily harm— some of which are uncomfortably pitch in nature— one of the newer detecquisitors had dutifully gone and retrieved the alien’s things directly from the forensics lab. What they _hadn’t_ thought to consider was that the forensics crew might not be done with them. This had ended pretty much the way anyone might have expected—that is to say, with members of both divisions near-brawling over whose fault the contamination of the evidence was. The computer terminal, as it turns out, was intended for the head of your unofficial second-in-command, who had neatly dodged out of the way just in time for it to almost hit you.

It’s all just the kind of petty drama as you’d expected on a regular day working for the government. Nights like this are why you started smoking in the first place.

You decide to get straight down to it, turning to the head of the forensics team assigned to work the case. “Taxoli, was it? What’s your team’s current progress on the biochemical samples?”

“we’ll be lucky (?!) if we can even find anything at all now (!)” the biochemist mutters, glaring daggers at the rookie detecquisitor who started it all. “we were this close (!!) and now—”

“But did you manage to collect _any_ samples?” 

Oh, there it is. A flash of uncertainty, quickly covered up in defensive indignation.

“well (…), yes, but—”

“Then you should have started analyzing them by now. Your deadline to finish extracting and processing biochemical samples from the evidence was an hour ago. If anything, _we_ should have sent someone to collect them sooner.”

The troll sputters and blathers on a while longer before storming out, complaining about idiot detecquisitors contaminating valuable alien genetic samples. Which he isn’t wrong about, per se. So long as the subject remains at large, those samples could go a long way in cracking open the secrets of the would-be invaders targeting Alternia. But deadlines are deadlines, and yours happens to be equipped with high-grade lasers and is rocketing closer to the planet with every passing second.

With things cooled down, you set two of your team on the task of cleaning up the office and get the others to start taking out the items recovered from the watchtower. You have them clear one of the desks and haul the box of evidence up onto it. One by one, the items are carefully removed and laid out on the table, each cleaned and wrapped neatly in clear plastic, courtesy of the forensics team.

It’s…really not what you expected, not at all. Not that you even knew _what_ you were expecting. Something different, you guess. Something you wouldn’t recognize.

But the selection of items scattered across the desk is pretty much the average haul you’d see from any old squatter—a mishmash of tattered clothes, household appliances, cutlery, and some generally useless crap like stuffed toys and model figurines. Other things, like food scraps and electronics, have been taken out and given to separate divisions.

Which reminds you. You turn to the unofficial second-in-command of your little band of six, a half-competent kid with the castename Versus. “Any updates on cracking that palmhusk?”

She shakes her head. “noth1ng s1nce the 1ncom1ng call from xoloto. tech1es havent been able to open 1t.”

Well, that’s disappointing. “None of them? Incredible. Have they tried reaching out to one of the freelance hackers we use?”

“already called one 1n. remember that maxlol k1d?”

Oh, you most certainly do. Maxlol demonstrated undeniable skill, and his records were clean, but you had the feeling that the personal records of a _hacker _weren’t exactly the most accurate measure of their character. Still, the guy was definitely patriotic. The last time your division had hired him, you think it was an encryption job about five perigees ago, the idiot wouldn’t shut up about how much he was looking forward to being a battery. You can only hope he proves as useful as he was the last time.

You massage your temples to alleviate the headache that rises in response to the mere memory of that awful time. “When he comes, just have him sent straight to the tech wing. I’ll deal with him once the job is done.”

“on 1t.”

The alien invader’s belongings suggest a very…eclectic individual, to say the least. There’s no clear leaning towards one interest, one topic of study, or even one _style_. The most promising items are: one, the remains of the electric kettle and the coffeemaker, which you might be able to trace back to their sellers and use their in-store cameras to find the alien among the customers; and two, the clothing. The clothing makes up the largest proportion of the items recovered, but you don’t find that too unusual. Given how physiologically different they appear to be from a troll, it’d only be logical for them to try and blend in any way they could. What’s important is finding who _gave_ them the clothes. While some of it might have been recovered from waste heaps, the majority of imperial subjects dispose of old clothing via incinerator, so finding the clothes’ past owners could help to expand the list of suspected traitors.

The clothing is in all shapes and sizes, although there is a noticeable preference for flowing skirts. Among them you find a tattered black shirt, short-sleeved, clearly marked with the caste sign of one Cirava Hermod. Well, even if the selfies weren’t incriminating enough, _this_ goes a long way in bumping their status from “suspected traitor” to “traitor”. The certainty of it is satisfying, or it _would_ be, if any of the other clothing were nearly as telling. You inspect every hem, every shirtsleeve, looking for some sign, but the articles remain stubbornly unidentifiable.

That is, until you reach the bottom of the pile, and find the tattered remains of a teal bathrobe.

You flip the mangled fabric over and there it is, right by the hem. Three lines, clearly and purposefully embroidered. You can’t suppress the grin that tugs at your jaw as you bring the section of fabric into the light. The robe has been torn near enough to the sign that a few of the lines are cut off, but not near enough to destroy it.

“Allyll, take this and open up the database. I think we’ve got another one.”

The other detecquisitor promptly does so, firing up one of the computer terminals and undergoing the painstaking process of sketching the caste sign in the appropriate submission box using a mouse pointer. Several agonizing seconds later, they hit “SEARCH”.

Every light in the room promptly winks out.

The next few seconds are a blur. In the seconds it takes to adjust your eyes to the dark, you hear rapid strutpodsteps and a loud rustle of fabric. Your eyes snap automatically to the source of the noise just in time to see a blurred figure disappearing through the doorway. You can’t quite make it out, but it looked almost as though they were carrying—

No. _No, _they couldn’t have.

Your eyes dart to the table where all evidence from the alien’s hive had been laid out. Even though your bulbs haven’t fully adjusted, the sight before you is clear as night: nothing but an upended box.

“Allyll, where the hell is that sign I just showed you?”

“=—it-it was right here a second ago, i swear it was—=”

Of _course_ it was.

You automatically go for the wall comms panel to beep security. Just as you feared, the screen is dead—as is every other one in the building, you suspect.

You knew the alien’s allies would begin making their move soon, you just hadn’t thought it would be so soon after the empress’ return was announced. All the more reason you need to crush their little support network. So long as traitors roam the planet’s surface unchecked, all of Alternia could be at risk of another attack before the empress’ armies even _arrive_. More importantly, you could get demoted for it, and that’d set you back at least a perigee.

“You, you and you, come with me. We’re going after the intruders. You two, get down to the tech division and check—”

You never get to finish that sentence, because at your words are cut off by a massive explosion that rocks the room—no, the entire _building_— and sends crashing you to the ground. As you go down, you think you catch a glimpse of something outside the window, a blinding wave of yellow and purple light, accompanied by sound of laughter, faint and muffled but nonetheless all too distinct.

Fuck. _Fuck _this. Fuck whoever gave you this awful case. It just keeps getting messier by the second.

* * *

A screech, echoing down an alley four streets away, sending a pack of carrion birds into terrified flight. “>LMAOOOOO DID U SEE THAT >SCRUBS NEVER SAW IT COMINGG XD >GET DUNKED ON BY THE MEMELORD SUPREME LOLOLOL”

A roll of eyes behind a pair of goggles. “Sure. -_-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4/12/2020!  
________________________________________________________________________________________  
Notes on the fantroll:  
-Alignment is Lawful Evil bordering on Neutral Evil. While he doesn’t view any of what the empire does as morally wrong, he sees its current structure and methods as inefficient and crude, and very much in need of improvement.  
-"Why are we still here? Just to suffer? Every day I get imperial commands"  
-His ultimate goal (currently) is to become a tactytant (tactician+tyrant), a highly valued position in the military where the one who holds it is responsible for interpreting the Empress’ orders into solid and workable strategies for soldiers and army divisions to follow.  
-Consistently behind on all things pop culture. He doesn’t necessarily think of it as a waste of time, he just has no idea how people get into these things.  
-His sign is Scoriborn, the Dangerous (Cerulean + Rage + Derse).  
-Has a crocodile lusus.


	36. Interlude 5 Part 1

“So just let me get this straight. You were _kidnapped?_ x_x”

_“~ Not one to mince words, are ya, Marsti, my good chum? ~”_

“Don’t you “old chum” me, Ratite. Answer the question. -_-”

_“~Ah, well…oh, that’s a real panscratcher…where to even begin? Who can say…~”_

“_Vikare Ratite, _were you or were you not pancontrolled and kidnapped by a pair of renegades who _used_ you to fly them out of the city, leading to you getting gunned down by drones in the middle of nowhere? =_= ”

_“~Alright, alright, alright, I _was_, but rest assured, I’m fine! No need to work yourself into a lather!~” _

“Vikare—”

_“~Hoho, get it? Lather? Like with soap?~”_

“Yes, fine, I appreciate the pun. -_- ”

_“~Knew you would!~”_

“Yep. That’s me. Marsti “pun appreciator” Houtek. Great. So how are you _fine_, exactly? Are you fine as in alive, or fine as in _actually fine? _-_- ”

“~_Well, aside from a couple hard knocks to the ol’ panholder and a bit of a gimp in my gait, I’m just swell. Made some new chums, got a good breakfast, and hey! Turns out the shuttlepod isn’t as bad-off as I’d thought!~”_

“Wh— who— wait, really? ◦_◦ ”

“~_Damn skippy! Turns out the ol’ flivver’s more sturdy than I gave her due credit for! ~”_

“That’s— okay, that’s great to hear. Turns out we might need to get this alien off-planet a hell of a lot sooner than we thought. -_- ”

_“~Quite true, old egg. They’ve certainly gotten into a bit of a mess, haven’t they?~”_

“That’s more than putting it lightly. But back to your situation— -_- ”

_“~One little slip and a misplaced meteor taking a chunk off the ol’ moldy pie in the sky, and whoops-a-daisy, you’ve got HIC herself on the way! Whole thing has me damn near reeling, Marsti. Frankly, I don’t know what in the hell I’ll do.~”_

“I…_ugh_. I’m really sorry about how this turned out, Vikare. I wouldn’t have had you try and steal that ship if I’d known—≈_≈ ”

_“~Why, Marsti, I’m positively offended!~”_

“What? ._. ”

_“~Goodness, it’s like you don’t know me at all. Honestly, Marsti, I’m just surprised they didn’t mark me for treason sooner, haha! I’ve been nicking ship parts for SWEEPS now!~”_

“Aggghhhhhh, I should have _known_ you weren’t getting all those out of the scrapyards. -_- ”

_“~HAHAHAHAHA!”~”_

“Well, okay, fine. But you still haven’t told me where the hell you _are_ right now. You at least made it out of Thrashthrust, right? -_- ”

“~_Well, I’d say we’re out in the boonies. The kid who’s been putting us up the last night or so seems to think his place is roughly between Thrashthrust and Goregash, if that means anything? ~”_

“Well, you’re _definitely_ in the boonies. Which is good. If we’re still going with the current plan, an isolated location makes for an ideal launch site. -_- ”

_“~Quite true! Which reminds me— have you been able to find them and tell them about the plan, yet??~”_

“Yes, actually. Turns out my matesprit’s (?) moirail’s kismesis (?)— you know, that guy?— he got to meet up with them yesternight not too long after they hit the feeds. They’ve got them bundled up at some swanky indigo place. -_-”

_“~How are they feeling about…well…you know…all of the hooey about them on the feeds?~”_

“Don’t know yet. Haven’t been able to talk to them directly. I’m planning to, as soon as Fol’s aforementioned moirail (?) quits playing Fortspite long enough to let me borrow his palmhusk. -___- ”

_“~Ha ha! Oh, do you think you could tell me his Fortspite handle? I’ve been looking for new people to play with!~”_

“Firstly, no, because in the horrific scenario where the two of you got along, you might start picking up his slang and vice versa and then I’d never be able to speak to either of you ever again. Secondly, how are you going to game when your console’s back in Outglut? Come to think of it, how are you going to get your tools and spare parts for the ship? -_-”

_“~No worries, chum! Believe it or not, most of the shuttlepod’s internal storage compartments are intact, so I’ve got a full toolkit and spare energy cells on hand. As for the hull, my temporary hivemate, Tongva, informs me that there’s a scrapheap just a few miles away! And there’s more!~”_

“…More? -__- ”

_“~This place is a PSIONIC BEE APIARY, Marsti!! Do you know how long I’ve longed to tinker with mind honey as a component for alternative fuel? How achingly I’ve yearned to push the limits of aviation as we know it, only to be stymied by the cruel chokehold of imperial military regulations? ~”_

“…Yeah, sure. Just don’t hurt yourself. -_- ”

“_~OH, I’ve neglected to ask what you’ve been up to! How goes it back at the old digs?~”_

“Well, I’ve committed several crimes. -_- ”

_“~Oh?~”_

“…and I may have found myself a moirail. >_>”

_“~OH?!?!?~”_

* * *

“……”

“…”

“……”

“…”

“……”

“…”

“……”

“soooooooooo…ya want sum Kraft™ Original Mac and Grubsauce?”

“……”

“…”

“………………”

“yo, Boly-poly?”

“(hm?)”

“tf do grubs eat?”

“(plants. small fauna. each other, sometimes, but i think that’s before they exit the mother grub, which she’s obviously done already.)”

“aw, nasty. hey kid, u ever eat anybody?”

“…………”

“oh shes def eaten somebody”

“(what makes you say that?)”

“she just frowned even more when i asked :o|”

“(better sleep with one ganderbulb open, then.)”

“lmaooo real funni Bol— u see dat?! she almost smiled!!!”

“(i didn’t see anything.)”

“wha— ahhhh shes not doin it anymore :o( u scared her”

“……”

“(hey psst marv, i don’t think she wants to talk right now. or at all.)”

“no shit :,o(( here i am offerin summa dis fine motherfuckin culinary experteez and shes not even lookin…iz it my stank? hey Bol, do i smell or someth?”

“(put your arm down. i’m not sniffing that.)”

“ay ur loss ;op so watcha got over there”

“(a load of obsolete garbage. most of my notes and data failed to take into account the possibility of the puppetmaster’s death, and what little i have is pure speculation. one of my older theories was that his death would be the end of existence itself, so at least _that_ one’s been ruled out—”)

“yooo, unless_ this_ b nonexistence, and were all just decaying consciousnesses floatin out in the void, hallucinating everythin thats happenin rn— oh shIT WAIT WAT IF ITS ALWAYS BEEN LIK DAT?????? and ur whole lyfe up 2 now was rly just a dream??? yooooooooo just imagine it dawg, we rly coulda been trippin da whole time!!”

“(marv. no. stop. i thought we agreed to not get into the nonexistence theory again. ever.)”

“ok ok ok ok but just _imagine_ it tho.”

“(okay, done imagining it. can we please talk about the puppetmaster now? i’ve been dying to talk about the puppetmaster.)”

“ya, lay it on me.”

“(based on your observations and mine, we know his influence is _definitely_ gone, so he’s either dead or so incapacitated he can’t pull any strings. we shouldn’t go so far as to assume he’s well and truly gone. however, whatever the case, what we know for certain is that there’s been a divergence from what you call “canon”.)”

“thats sure as shit what it felt like. wholeass existence failed the vibe check and now we freeballin out in the cosmos. swish swish and a miss straight into the motherfuckin void.”

“(_are _we in the void? don’t answer that, actually. what i mean is that we’ve undergone a major timeline divergence, one that possibly began a long while back and has culminated in a definite splitting that coincided with the puppetmaster’s death. the question, here, is what side of the split _we’re_ on— the “canon” side, or the most-definitely-doomed side.”)

“or neither.”

“(what?)”

“like…im tryna suss it out, but…while weve def not been in canon for like, a motherfuckin _while_ now, it doesnt feel like a doomed timeline either? idk how to explain it :o/”

“(give it a try.)”

“man like…the vibes just aint rancid enough for dis to b a straightup doomed ‘line. i mean it _could_ be more of a 100K slowburn kinda deal but itz like…i dont feel unreal enuff? but i also dont feel _real_ enuff either. yanno??”

“(somewhat. mostly i just feel…freer. the strings are all cut, but instead of free-falling, it feels more like we’re floating, suspended in limbo.)”

“shits wack yo.”

“(shit’s wack yo indeed. also, stop doodling on my notes. i was going to burn most of them anyways but at least wait for me to finish sorting them before using them as scratch paper.)”

“……”

“ohey _dont_ look now but the lil grubbette started lookin this way when u said dat”

“(shouldn’t i be the one telling _you _that, considering?)”

“i mean i guess………tbhh idk why she keeps givin me the stinkbulb, i mean i didnt think i was _dat_ fugly, besides were both timebound so i figured wed be besteez”

“(huh. didn’t you say she picked up on your internal narration before? that could explain why she’s so wary.)”

“i mean yea, lik i wasnt rly projectin it dat _far_ or anything, but she clocked dat shit like— hol up, u sayin wat i think ur sayin?”

“(i’m saying she’ll talk when she’s ready. now pass me the mac and grubsauce, i’m starving.)”

* * *

“Where are you going? Your wounds haven’t hea/ed yet!”

“calm down tegs * i'll be fine * i'm just going out for a little while * be back soon *|”

“The /ast time you said that, I didn’t see you for ha/f a sweep! /ook, Po/ypa, you don’t have to—”

“tegiri * if you don’t take your hand off my arm * i'm going to have to do it myself * and neither of us want that *|”

“…”

“just * listen, okay? * i’m not trying to be ungrateful * especially considering this is the second time you’ve had to patch me up * but you’re not _obligated_ to look after me * i’m not your responsibility * i can handle the consequences for my own shitty mistakes *|”

“Hai, hai, I understand that, but—”

“—and i know you have the whole “justice ninja” thing going on but honestly * there’s probably trolls who need that kind of help way more than i do * so you probably shouldn’t waste your time worrying about an assa—”

“_Th-that’s not it, Po/pa, you baka!”_

“…”

“…”

“wwwwowwww.”

“Senpai, now _rea//y_ isn’t the time.”

“hey, don’t mmmmind me, just trying to finish mmmmy thesis four swwwweeps early over here. in mmmmy _owwwwn fucking office_.”

“…G-gomenasai.”

“sure. but seriously, goezee, you should probably stay put. those stitches i just put in wwwwon’t hold up under any hoofbeastcrap ninja shenanigans.”

“i'll just take the kit with me, then * and stitch them up myself if they rip *|”

“Nani?!”

“mmmmmetal as fuck. still highly inadvisable. listen, i know you’re worried about themmmm, but that can wwwwait until you can actually—”

“don’t you get it? * i wasn’t there when they needed me most * and now things are even worse for them and i'm _still not there_ * i just need to see them * i need to be there to keep them safe *|”

“they aren’t _totally_ helpless, you knowwww. and besides, like i said, they _are_ safe right nowwww”

“Hai, it’s true! I saw them with my own bulbs!”

“really * so they weren’t upset about other people getting dragged into their problems * or clearly blaming themselves for shit they couldn’t control * or apologizing for everything * or trying to find some stupid, desperate, self-destructive way to fix the whole thing? *|”

“…”

“…no? Not that I could te//.”

“well fuck * it’s worse than i thought *|”

* * *

“leT me Tell you, my faiThful juggalings, of The Tale of sainT SARFIL CIRQUE, The founder of The very church in which we sTand. on a momenTous midday sevenTy sweeps and sixTeen perigees pasT, our mosT mirThful sisTer felT in her mind a laughTer like noThing else. iT was a laughTer, my bifurcaTed sisTer and broTher, like a calamiTy. The joy of iT jusT abouT spliT her pan in Twain.”

“and wiThin Their joy she felT Their _hunger_, a hunger for someThing sweeTer than sugar and richer Than blood. They wanTed to feasT on mirTh iTself, a glorious day of delighT for all. wiTh the sweeT music of the carnival shaking up her veins, sainT cirque Took up her greaT bloody Trumpet and seT ouT to— you goT a query, barzum?”

“yes sister chahut. sorry sister chahut. who was laughing?”

“why, The messiahs, of course. now, sainT cirque Took up her weapon and she— whaT, baizli?”

“SISTER CHAHUT, WHEN DO WE GET OUR OWN WEAPONS?”

“you cause enough Trouble around here wiThouT me havin’ To worry abouT you geTTing inTo proper sTrifes.”

“BUT MISS AMISIA GETS A WEAPON.”

“liTTle blue’s goT a good sweep on you. noT To menTion a fair biT more common sense. now, will you leT me finish your moTherfucking lesson, or do y’all care for me to sTarT all over again?”

“aWwWw.”

“Thank you. now, sainT cirque followed the laughTer To the place The messiahs bade her To build a church—_This_ church—and bapTized The land in The blood of The hereTics who lived There. she raised her brass insTrument and loosed a mighTy honk, calling her breThren There, one and all, To geT To work and heed the messiahs’ will. Those who answered the propheT’s call came in droves, and Together they razed The sinners’ dwelling to The ground unTil all was made pure and holy. Then, on ThaT moonliT nighT, the firsT congregaTion of the place that would become ouTgluT Took up sTick and sTone and brick and bone To build themselves a— again, barzum?”

“sister chahut, is killing ok if it’s for the messiahs?”

“well, Technically speaking, liTTle half-and-half, for a noble jugg such as yourself, jusT abouT all killing is alrighT so long as you pace yourself and don’T forgeT to keep the messiahs aT hearT.”

“oh.”

“why The face?”

“that’s how my face always looks, sister chahut.”

“IT’S A DUMB FACE, HAHAHAHAHA!”

“it’s basically the same face as yours though...”

“WHAT? NO WAY THAT’S TRUE. GET OVER HERE SO I CAN HIT YOU.”

“no way!”

“YES WAY!”

“i can’t come over _anywhere_! we're tied up! _to each other!”_

“I DON’T CARE!”

“soleil, if you don’T let me finish This moTherfucking lesson, boTh halves of you are grounded for The nexT Two sweeps.”

“tHeY sTaRteD iT!”

“and i'm ending iT. now, whaT’s your lusus Tell you To say aT Times like This?”

“…sOrRy.”

“huh. noT The one i would’ve gone for, buT sure, ThaT’ll do.”

“…WHEN CAN WE LEAVE TO GO SEE OUR LUSUS?”

“noT anyTime soon, for a whole loTTa reasons.”

“wE pRoMiSe We’Ll Be GoOd!”

“ThaT ain’T even one of Them. They’re in a whole loTTa Trouble, or so I hear. and _you_ Two are basically muTanTs, as far as drone sTandards are concerned. noT To menTion unregisTered subjecTs.”

“…oH.”

“aw, chins up. come This sweep’s day of delight carnival, we’ll have you Two show your skills and geT you officially bapTized for everyjugg To see. drones won’T dare lay a claw on a member of _my_ moTherfucking congregaTion.”

“aNd ThEn We CaN gO fInD tHeM?”

“we’ll see. so, wiTh The hereTics’ blood fresh on Their fangs, the firsT congregaTion gaThered as sainT cirque began her sermon wiTh These words: “LISTen HERE, mothERfuckERS, here’s HOW things ARE goING to WORK from NOW on…””

* * *

“_Are you absolutely _certain_ he’s alright?1__"_

(1. This is getting quite repetitive, I know, but I don’t2 know that I can trust you. (2. I don’t trust you.))

“…I mean…yeah…”

“_Do you think you could put me on speaker? I want to talk to him.”_

“Sure…got it…”

“_Is it on now?”_

“Yeah…I’ll just get a little closer to him…”

“(| hey- you- no!! if you want some **Juicy Meats,** go get your own, you greedy goat! |)”

“_Who is that?3”_

(3. And what the _fuck_ are they doing with my lusus?)

“One of those kids from before…you know…at the thing…I saw him sleeping in some bushes…and now he’s here…that’s pretty much what happened…”

_“You just _let_ people into your hive on a whim?”_

“I mean…that’s basically what you did…before…”

_“Not _willingly! _That was all my damn kismesis’ doing._4 _Honestly, that man drives me insane. As if I didn’t hate him that much already—_”

(4. I never should’ve given him a key.)

“Um…yeah…sure…I wasn’t really asking………so…now that you heard your lusus and all…I’m just gonna hang up now…”

“_Waitwaitwait no I still haven’t told him to come home!”_

“Sure…”

“_Goatdad, if you can hear me, COME HOME! There’s a curfew starting today and you need to leave now if you want to make it before then!”_

“…He’s not doing anything…”

“_How _helpful_ to know.5 Goatdad, stop trying to eat random trolls’ dubious meat products and—”_

(5. By which I mean not fucking helpful at all.)

“(| _dubious_? hey, dude, don't knock it if you haven’t even tried it! here, charun, hold this **Hot Meat Tube **for me a second, you’re taller than me and this goat keeps trying to steal it- |)”

“Uh…I don’t really wanna touch that…”

“_Will you all _please_ just—"_

“(| ahhh no I dropped it!! |)”

“_GOATDAD DON’T YOU DARE—6”_

(6. No no no NO NO—)

“Too late…”

“(| NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! |)”

“_WHY?!”_

“_h33y blu33 boy can i g33t the wifi passw— uh, is this a bad time or som33thing?”_

* * *

“hey, agent v1taal? 1 have an 1mportant update on the— agent _v1taal? _agent?”

“I heard you the _first_ time, Versus.”

“oh d1d you now, w1seass? 1 mean— sh1t, sorry, s1r—”

“No, no, continue. I’m sick to death of people toadying up to me just because of the damn promotion. By all means, speak freely.”

“well 1f thats really the case, s1r, then 1 now have _two_ very important updates for you.”

“Start with the least important one.”

“the f1rst update is that the b1o team f1nally got done process1ng those samples. the report 1s wa1t1ng on your desk back at the off1ce.”

“Right, about time. If this alien spy has any secrets we don’t know about, any features that would allow it to enslave other trolls’ minds, we need to know. After all, who knows if the Empress’ reinforcements will arrive before more invaders do?”

“and one other th1ng, s1r…”

“Oh, right. What is it?”

“_please_ d1tch the vape pen. 1ts hum1l1at1ng. ”

“What?”

“1 understand youre try1ng to qu1t smok1ng lately, and thats commendable, s1r, 1t really 1s, but 1f youre going to sw1tch to vap1ng you _really_ ought to understand the bas1cs of 1t, or else youre just go1ng to embarrass yourself. not to ment1on you got what has to be the crapp1est brand on the market. how much d1d you even pay for that? 20 caegars? 40 caegars?”

“Er—”

“1 sure as hell hope they d1dnt charge you more, because 1f thats the case you most _def1n1tely_ got scammed. man, do you even know how to do vape tr1cks?”

“…On second thought, Versus, I think some _professionalism_ would be preferred, for now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Interlude will have three parts, one taking place in each wipe before the empress’ arrival. However, the next part will not be coming out this coming weekend due to exams. Thank you for your patience.  
_________________________________
> 
> Notes on Agent Namere Versus:  
\- The base personality trait I started with and also built her entire character on was “very mean, very judgmental middle schooler who’s just really good at hiding it.”  
\- Actually the second-youngest on the team at six and a half sweeps (roughly fourteen in human years), but made unofficial second-in-command by just being very, very competent.  
\- Sign is Scorus, The Victorious (Cerulean + Prospit + Breath)  
\- Her lusus is a Draco lizard (I just think they're neat)


	37. Interlude 5 Part 2

“▲ hey, can i come in? ▼”

“…”

“▲ lanque? ▼”

“…”

“▲ lanque. _lanque_. LANQUE. ▼”

“Mmm?”

“▲ hey, asshole, are you gonna open the door, or what?▼”

“Most likely the latter of the tWo.”

“▲ _ugggghhhh_. seriously? ▼”

“Yes, seriously. I'm in the middle of something.”

“▲ well, when are you going to be _done_ being “in the middle of something”? ▼”

“Mm, hard to knoW for sure. Could be hours, nights, Wipes, even…”

“▲ oh, come _on._ i need to talk to you. ▼”

“If this is about tonight’s grubsitting detail, forget it. I’Ve had to coVer for you _tWice_ just in the past four nights. Adding those to the total, that makes us eVen. So WhateVer’s so important that you need to sneak out tWice in one Wipe, it can fucking Wait until it’s someone else’s turn to grubsit.”

“▲ i wasn’t even planning on— wait, hold on, you know i left the caverns? ▼▼”

“Kind of hard not to notice, What With you clomping through the secret tunnels in _those_ clunky-ass boots. Where did you eVen find those? Troll Sketchers? Word of adVice, you might Want to—”

“▲▲ does anyone else know? did you tell anybody? bronya? lynera? ▼▼”

“Of course I didn’t tell them, moron. What do you think I am, a snitch?”

“▲ i…thanks, i guess? ▼”

“Ugh, don’t. Let’s just say you oWe me one and leaVe it at that.”

“▲ fine. whatever. can i come in? ▼”

“_Fiiine_. Just don’t touch anything.”

“▲ is that _weed? _where did you even get that? ▼”

“I’ll tell you for fifty caegars.”

“▲ oh, fuck _off_. is it bronya’s ex? ▼”

“Fifty caegars or nothing.”

“▲ holy fuck, it really is. does she _know? _▼”

“Of course not. Wouldn’t Want to Worry our sWeet lusus any more than she already is, after all.”

“▲ are _you_? ▼”

“Am I What?”

“▲ worried. ▼”

“About _Bronya?”_

“▲ no, stinkpan, about the thing she and everyone else have been worrying about. you know, the fucking empress? ▼”

“Don’t touch that. And no, I don’t giVe a damn about Her IrreleVant Codface. EVen if she _does_ send people to inspect this sorry pit, We’ll be long gone by then.”

“▲…▼”

“What’s With the face?”

“▲ i'm not making a face. ▼”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re haVing second thoughts about leaVing.”

“▲▲ i'm _not_, i'm just thinking. ▼▼”

“Because _this_ might be the only chance we eVer get. We’ll be at cloistering age in less than tWo sWeeps, remember? Hell, they could eVen take us sooner if they’re loW on jades during the next conscription. We don’t _haVe_ any time left.”

“▲ yeah, i _know— _▼”

“If you’re going to back out, fine, but chances are you Won’t get another opportunity to run. Curfews are only going to keep getting Worse, and—”

“▲▲▲ will you just _shut up_ for once? i _know_ this might be our only chance. hell, i'm the one who _told_ you about it in the first place. but the more i think about it, the more i think it shouldn’t _just_ be us. ▼▼▼”

“If you’re talking about Wanshi, I thought We agreed We’d tell her once We got a confirmed date of departure.”

“▲ no, not Wanshi. listen, i think we should try and convince bronya to come with us too. yeah, she probably won’t like it, and she might even try and stop us, but it doesn’t feel _right_ to— why the _fuck _are you laughing? ▼▼▼”

“Are you _stupid_? HaVe you eVen _met_ her? She could neVer leaVe this place, not eVen if her life depended on it.”

“▲ but she— ▼”

“Forget it. She’ll neVer agree to come. She’s got the caVerns to look after, not to mention that “secret” nursery in the southWest tunnel. We’re better off not telling her.”

“▲ what about lynera? ▼”

“You think I give a crap about What happens to that backstabbing bitch?”

“▲ she’s their friend too, asshat. if we’re going with them, she might want to come too. ▼”

“Depends. Do you really think her friendship with them weighs out against her freaky obsession With Bronya?”

“▲▲ honestly? i don’t even _know_ anymore. she's…changed, these last couple of perigees. like…there are times when it almost seems like she’s being a genuine _person_?? ▼▼”

“Weird.”

“▲ _really_ weird. ▼”

“But is it really Worth the risk? She may just go and tell Bronya the instant We bring up the subject of deserting.”

“▲ …i think it’s a risk i want to take. ▼”

“…”

“▲…▼”

“Do WhateVer you Want. Just don’t get me inVolVed When things go to shit.”

* * *

“~What the- Oi! Come back here, you goon!~”

“…”

“~You! Yes, you! That’s my actuator valve you have there! If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like if you could bring it back, please!~”

“Didn’t see your name on it…”

“~Well, I assure you, I was holding it only a moment ago. Surely you _must_ have seen me dig it out and put it in my box? The one that’s right here beside me?~”

“Didn’t see that either…besides…it’s a free scrapyard…”

“~Don’t give me that baloney! And don’t think you can just ankle on out of here, either! That's just rude!~”

“…”

“~Here, fella, I’ll trade you for it. If you give me the valve, I’ll give you anything from my box over here. Good deal, right?~”

“How do I know…you even have anything worth trading…you might just be saying that so I’ll come closer…so you can steal it back…”

“~Why, I’m aghast! I know we only just met, pal-o-mine, but you should know I’m no dewdropper when it comes to picking out parts, even from a scrapheap like this! And based on the tools you’ve got there, I’d guess _you_ aren’t either. Is that a serridium-alloy handsaw?~”

“…I guess…?”

“~Ooh, I knew I’d recognized that glint somewhere! I’ve learned it’s always good to have one around—after all, you never know when the femur you’re working with might be a little too long!~”

“……………………………………………………ok…………………”

“So, whatta ya say? A nice decent trade, one tinkerer to another?”

“……Sure...”

“~Alrighty! Now if you’ll just—oof, that’s a bit heftier than I thought. Go on ahead and—HEY! Where do you think you’re going with that?~”

“You never said how much we were trading for it…”

“~Yes, but I clearly didn’t mean you could take _the entire box!_~”

“Well you didn’t say that so……bye…………………………weirdo...”

* * *

“Clown. Give me the salted tuber comestibles.”

“sorry lil homie, but dis here’s ma last bag. aint no way im gonna split— aw FUCK!”

“Give it to me.”

“_bol_, i thot u said u confiscated her needles!”

“(i gave them back to her yesterday for good behavior.)”

“well u might wanna take em back, bc spoiler alert, i think she mighta nicked an arterial pumptube.”

“(again? what was it this time?)”

“_nothing!”_

“Clown. You will give me the sustenance.”

“(oh, for fuck’s sake, marv, just give her the chips.)”

“u too?!”

“(she probably didn’t get much comfort food on the green moon...)”

“aww, but im gonna b fastin for da D.O.D. startin tomorrow.”

“(you’re seriously still going? you _know_ the drones are still looking for you. chances are they won’t have orders to kill, but you landing your ass in confinement would be a hell of an inconvenience right now, no offense.)”

“dawwwww, u _do_ care. ;o)”

“(against my better judgement.)”

“heh, tsundere.”

“(i'm going to pretend for both our sakes and hers that you did not just fucking call me that. if anything, i like to think i'm more of a kuudere.)”

“whateva ya say bud. ow, shit, okay, fine, just take ‘em, ‘mara.”

“Thank you.”

“y’welcome.”

“These taste bad.”

“ay, dont diss em til youve had at least a couple. bbq-chili chips kick motherfuckin ass.”

“They can’t kick my ass. I’ll kill them.”

“u go for it kiddo. i believe in u.”

“(you didn’t answer my question. you're _still_ going to that religious festival thing, with detecquisitors and drones crawling around?)”

“hafta, if i wanna keep the churchs protection. da outglut congregation might be kinda bitty compared 2 da big onez, but dey still got da powa to give members sanctuary an even protecc them from da fuzz if need b. an if things go to shit sooner than we want em to, we might needa place to chill.”

“(that’s true. if things _do_ fall apart before the predetermined time, you take damara there and—)”

“wbu?”

“(don’t worry about me. you two, on the other hand…if the worst-case-scenario comes to pass, i want you two to hide out in the church or somewhere with similar metaphysical stability to avoid getting caught up any quasicanonical anomalies. the timeline as a whole could very well depend on—)”

“Shut up.”

“(damara?)”

“Someone is listening.”

* * *

_“Wait, no, don’t hang up. *___________”_

“What?1”

(1. What?)

“_Listen, Xigisi.”_

“I’m listening.2”

(2. Apparently.)

“_Smartass. I just wanted to say— fuck, _shit_, I just— ugh—”_

“Speak up, Gorjek, I can’t hear you through all that mumbling3.”

(3. Not that it’s worth any more or less than the b.s. you spew on a regular basis, heh.)

_ “I’m _sorry,_ alright?”_

“…what?4”

(4. _What?_)

_“ I’m sorry you got dragged into all this. I never asked you, I never _cared_ to ask, I just barged into your hive and forced you to host a whole fucking band of traitors and put yourself in harm’s way. I can’t even say you were my only hope or some bullshit— there were plenty of other options, I just did what I always do and picked the one that seemed the most convenient.”_

“…”

_“And I’m _sorry, _Xigisi. I—”_

“Gorjek—”

“_—just wanted you to know that I—" _

“Tagora, just _stop talking_.”

“…”

“Gorje— no, _Tagora_. What you did was, to be blunt, pretty fucking shitty of you. But that’s _only_ because it came out of nowhere. If I’d only known, I would have _gladly_ given my hive up to shelter our mutual friend.5 Your colleague, too, for that matter. I hadn’t been acquainted with her prior to all this, but having her around this last wipe and a half has been…not awful.6 What I’m trying to say is that it’s _fine_.”

(5. After hearing what became of their previous accommodations, I’m frankly horrified I didn’t do so sooner. This hive of mine is too empty as-is; I could easily have accommodated them and several more besides.

6\. I never thought I’d meet someone more exhausting to deal with as you are.7 (7. Rest assured, the brunt of my loathing still lies with you.))

“_That’s…good to hear.”_

“…Are…you alright? You sound a bit off.”

_“Frankly, I’m more than a little flabbergasted, Xigisi. Who knew that somewhere, in that overstuffed thinkpan of yours, there’d be a spark of genuine charitability? In fact, I’m starting to think you’re going soft. *___________”_

“Oh, that’s rich coming from _you_.”

“_What _ever_ could you mean, o spade of mine?”_

“To think _Tagora Gorjek_, the most ruthless legislacerator in all of Thrashthrust, would actually _apologize_ _for_ _inconveniencing someone?8 _Surely not.”

(8. In _this_ economy?)

“_Oh, I _hate_ you. *___________”_

“Hate you too.”

“_…There’s one more thing I need to tell you. There’s been tell of detecquisitors sniffing around the teal district, lately. Now, the explosion at their HQ last wipe took out a lot of the evidence from our friend’s hive, or so I’ve heard, but still, I have to assume they’ll be knocking at my door soon enough.”_

“…And?”

“_And so I probably won’t be talking to you for a while. I trust Lamati’s and Adalov’s safeguards, but so long as I’m a suspect I don’t want to take any risk of these calls being tapped. Do you understand? *___________”_

“…I do.”9

(9. Regardless of how badly I wish I didn’t. Of how much I wish I could always keep you with me, safe and sound. Words cannot describe how badly I wish I could see you right now, Tagora, and _oh, _how I _hate_ the way you do that to me, stealing away one of my greatest sources of strength— my words— with just the briefest passing thought of you. I hate you. I love you. Please be safe.)

“_Good.”_

* * *

“iii’m in hell. iii'm iiin actual, liiiteral hell. iiis thiiis what my viiictiiims felt liiike before tiiiickmom ate them?”

“god youre so annoying just shut up normie im trying to sleep”

“iii thiiink iii’m dyiiing. iii thiiink iii actually miiight diiie. ”

“lmao get in line”

“why does iiit _smell_ liiike that???”

“like what”

“liiike garbage stewed in chemiiical waste. you expect me to actually put thiiis in my _body? me?_”

“if youre not gonna eat it then literally just leave it and ill eat it later”

“_how_ diiid thiiis happen? how diiid iiit all come to thiiis? just how diiid my liiife go from one of splendor and renown to eating garbage out back of troll dennys wiiith a voiiidrotten corpse?”

“thats matesprit-in-law to you, scrub”

“…iii suppose. iii'm stiiill processing iiit.”

“lmao yeah marstis like so outta your league not mine tho”

“oh, fuck off. iiif anythiiing, iiit’s the other way around.”

“you just keep telling yourself that”

“iii wiiill, thank you very much.”

“loser”

“what was that?!”

“nothing lol youre hearing things”

“thiiis iiis hell, iiit has to be. eiiither that, or fate has abandoned me for good.”

“youre better off without it tbh fates mostly just a massive pain in the wastechute”

“to someone of _your_ caste, maybe.”

“says the chick at the same exact dennys parking lot as me”

“_ugghh._ thiiis iiis bullshiiit! iii lose everything because of a viiideo? one fuckiiing viiideo? and not even my most popular one!”

“what was the most popular one”

“oh, iiit was part of a new seriiies iii started last periiigee, just as an experiiiment. basiiically, partiiiciiipants must choose between three cakes, one of whiiich is poiiisoned. iiif they choose wrong, they diiie. iiif they choose correctly, they get to go home wiiith two free cakes.”

“yoooo that actually sounds really fun”

“iiit was totally riiigged, of course. obviiiously all three were poiiisoned, hoho. seeiiing people try and guess whiiich one was poiiisoned in the comments was absolute gold.”

“damn still sounds fun tho is cake good? ive never tried it”

“you’ve never _what?!”_

“ugh why are you so loud”

“iii can’t beliiieve you’ve never had cake. diiisgraceful. get up, we’re goiiing to fiiind you some.”

“kinda low rn youre gonna have to carry me”

“_fiiine_. but iiif you drool on me iii swear iii’m droppiiing you.”

* * *

“you can’t do this * i won’t let you *|”

You won’t _let_ me?

“i— * you— * you know what i meant *|”

Honestly, Polypa, I don’t think I really do.

“what— * okay * let me put it this way, then * if you want to leave to try and do this * i am going to physically stop you *|”

You don’t even know what I’m planning to do! I just said I was going to fix this, that everything was going to be okay—

“exactly *|”

Wow, okay, harsh. Listen, I’m not just rushing in like a total idiot! I have things planned out! Actual thoughts in my brain are going into this!

“okay * so why don’t you tell me what this plan is? *|”

That’s, uhhh…well… hey, no, don’t give me that look. It’s a work in progress.

“uh huh *|”

Look. I’m _not_ just going to sacrifice myself or something, if that’s what you’re worried about. That would be stupid. That wouldn’t fix _anything_. The Empress is just gonna keep looking for more aliens like me, or people who might’ve been working with them. With me. So it’d basically be useless. I _get_ that.

“good * glad to hear it *|”

But I still need to do _something_. I can’t just let everybody keep protecting me and keep getting hurt. That sucks.

“it’s not that you’re _letting_ them * they’re choosing to do this on their own *|”

It’d still be my fault if they died.

“and if you die they’ll be dying for nothing at all *|”

Don’t _say_ that. No one is going to die! Certainly not _you_!

“well if you’re not letting me die and i’m not letting you die * then it’s settled * no dying or else *|”

…Or else what.

“or else * uh *|”

I mean. What're you gonna do, _kill _m— mmph!

“_shhhhhhh_. *|”

Polypa, just— _stop_. I— I can’t do this.

“oh * _fuck *_ i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

I know. I know. I just…I need to hear you say you trust me, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you, or any of the others. But there’s something I need to try. And if I don’t, and things get worse…I’ll always remember it. I’ll remember that I _could_ have done something, even if it was something really meager, and I didn’t, letting everyone else keep fighting _for_ me instead. You’re worth so much more than that. So please, will you trust me on this?

“of course i trust you. *|”

Thanks. I think I…never mind. Thanks.

“…”

“…*|”

So. Er. How’d you get the stitches?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Dennys is a valid troll name” is the only thing I have room for in my brain right now  
\--  
So, finals are over! For the time being, I'll still be maintaining the weekly update schedule, but we'll see what happens as time goes on.


	38. Interlude 5 Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alt chapter title: Oops! All Fantrolls! (don't worry, it’s not just them)

* * *

“—=if its=—=erm=—=too difficult to talk about=—=voluntarily i mean=—=i could uh=—=help=—”

“help?”

“—=i mean technically its not required per se=—=at least not in this particular instance=—=seeing as this is more of an interview and less of a=—=well=—=an inqusition=—=but still=—=if it would help you to uh=—=speak more freely=—=i can help with that=—”

“oh i see now well thanks very much for your kind offer miss —?”

“—=oh im so sorry i should have formally greeted you in person=—=im detecquisitor agent recomb=—=as i said over the husk im with the team currently investigating extraterrestrial contact over the last few perigees=—=speaking of which=—=thanks once again for agreeing to this interview miss seyzat=—=the empire appreciates your cooperation=—”

“come now theres no need for all that after all any true imperial subject would have _no choice_ but to agree to questioning now would they? it would be very strange indeed and that is not something i am known for no not at all absolutely not why would you think i had anything worth keeping from them thatd be just plain absurd now wouldnt it.”

“=—…—=miss seyzat? =—”

“especially if the person youre keeping things from is someone who only loves you and cares for your well-being oh no whod ever keep secrets from someone like that? purely absurd i tell you theres no way that could happen after all what could you possibly gain except to spare them pain they would only have to experience themselves eventually and then its made all the worse by keeping them in the dark in the first place. ridiculous! RIDICULOUS.”

“—=miss seyzat, do you need a minute? =—=or five? =—”

“no no im perfectly alright perfectly fine very busy however and would appreciate this conversation being over approximately seventeen minutes ago but yes alright go ahead.”

“—=as i was saying=—=if youd like i can=—=erm=—=relax your mind=—=using my psychic abilities that is=—=just a little bit obviously i wouldnt be forcing you to say stuff or anything like that its just=—=you seem=—=um=—=a bit stressed=—”

“oh no no no nooo im perfectly fine however i am losing precious seconds as we speak so with all due respect agent please ask your questions and then leave my hive SO THAT I CAN _DO MY JOB_ thank you very much.”

“—=well okay then=—=are you acquainted with one tagora gorjek?=—"

“yes. he happens to be a colleague of mine not that were especially close mind you being on different career tracks and all and work being so busy but yes i suppose we have interacted from time to time.”

“—=ah right=—=says here he’s in the same program as your matesprit=—=is that correct?=—”

“no.”

“—=no? but it says right here that-=—”

“if you are asking me _how_ i became acquainted with tagora gorjek then the answer is that _yes_ we do indeed know each other through his classmate tyzias entykk however. tyzias entykk is not my matesprit.”

“—=ah=—=i see=—=apologies miss seyzat=—=i didnt mean to offend=—”

“its alright agent oh what was it i could have sworn i had it right there on the tip of my tongue ah yes recomb that was it yes its perfectly fine all in the past no need to worry about it so if you dont mind?”

“—=oh=—=er=—=alright=—=i mean=—=ahem=—=to your knowledge=—=how selective is tagora gorjek in choosing his clients?=—=would he offer his services to say=—=someone suspected to be treasonous? =—”

“oh goodness no!”

* * *

“≈versssusss! hey, versssusss!≈”

“…”

“≈hey, i _sssee_ you over there, you know! don’t pretend you can’t hear me and walk away!≈”

“nope.”

“≈but i think i might really be on to sssomething thisss time!≈”

“1 dont have t1me to 1ndulge you r1ght now, _v1pera_. _some_ of us have actual work to do.”

“≈could you jussst lisssten to me for like five minutesss? i think i got a really good lead on one of the traitors and if i don’t tell sssomeone sssoon i think i’m gonna explode.≈”

“well _thats_ a we1rd co1nc1dence, because so have 1.”

“≈well i already called dibsss so me firssst.≈”

“make 1t qu1ck, 1m on my way to get perm1ss1on from agent v1taal to 1nvest1gate m1ne.”

“≈itsss fine, he’s probably just napping in hisss office anyways. okay, ssso you remember the missssssing pilot and ssshuttlepod that disssappeared the night we lossst track of hermod?≈”

“yeah, yeah, 1 saw the footage. hermod and the1r accompl1ce take the pod and the p1lot, pod gets shot down and recovered a few m1les past c1ty l1m1ts, the cargo—”

“≈ssshhhhh let me explain it!! itsss my turn!! ssso right now weve been assssssuming the culpritsss all fled to the city of bloodburg a few milesss north. but _my_ theory isss that—≈”

“oh, here 1t is.”

“≈they’re the dronesss!≈”

“what.”

“≈jussst think about it. thossse dronesss we sssent to check out the crasssh couldn’t detect them anywhere in the sssurrounding area, right? what if they ssshorted out those dronesss, opened them up, and hid inssside? you can’t get detected by a drone if you _are_ a drone, right? then, they could jussst ssstay there until the coassst was clear, and crawl out to get food or hydration fluid or whatever they needed. it’sss exactly the kind of thing a desssparate traitor would do— hide in plain sssight like they alwaysss do. then—”

“cerb1s, 1m gonna have to stop you r1ght there before my pan 1mplodes.”

“≈i know, right?≈”

“from your _stup1d1ty_. you really think they have the means to short-c1rcu1t and hollow out a drone? were talk1ing about a non-ps1on grubtuber and a drug dealer, both of wh1ch are probably 1njured.”

“≈but if they were controlling the pilot—≈”

“and the p1lots probably _dead_. even 1f he surv1ved the crash, theyd have no need for him.”

“≈no way!≈”

“yes way. youre too na1ve.”

“≈and you’re too unimaginative!≈”

“no, 1m just _smart_.”

“≈well, what’sss _your_ lead then, huh?≈”

“not a lead so much as a m1ss1on request. you know that the outglut clown church 1s hold1ng the1r day of del1ght carn1val 1n just a few days, r1ght?”

“≈what, the murder anniversssary thing?≈”

“yeah, the murder ann1versary thing. 1 found out that xolotos never m1ssed a s1ngle one.”

“≈ssso?≈”

“so 1t’ll be the perfect time to nab h1m.”

“≈pffft, and you called _me_ naïve? versssusss, the only non-clownsss they let in to thossse thingsss are the onesss who end up pinned up on the target boardsss behind the ssstallsss.≈”

“oh 1 know. thats why 1 wont be going as a non-clown.”

“≈uhhhhh pretty sssure that it’sss kinda late to get a baptisssm v, they clossse up public ssservices like a week in advance for eventsss.≈”

“1m not _gett1ng_ a bapt1sm, goofus. 1m go1ng undercover. you know, l1ke agents do?”

“≈undercover? at a _clown church_???≈”

“1 mean, yeah. some greasepa1nt and goofy clothes 1s all 1ll really need.”

“≈how are you being ssso casssual?! do you even know what theyll do if they catch you?≈”

“sure. but—”

“≈but???≈”

“but 1ts been _two and a half w1pes_, cerb1s, and 1f we dont catch these tra1tors now well be getting culled anyways. so 1m go1ng. e1ther back me up or fuck off, but dont th1nk you can stop me.”

“≈…i'm coming with you, then.≈”

“you— ugh, _f1ne_, dont give me that dumb face. well talk about 1t later ton1ght. after 1 talk to v1taal, theres someth1ng else 1 need to sort out.”

* * *

“{  
Hnngghhhhzzzz…  
}”

“Sclepi.”

“{  
Hhhhnnnn?  
}”

“Sclepi. Agent Sclepi, wake up.”

“{  
Hgnk.  
Ugh.  
Oh.  
Vitaal.  
//_oh shit i’m really in for it now_  
}”

“How long have you been here?”

“{  
Seven…eight…maybe nine hours.  
Sir.  
//_more like nineteen but that’s none of your business, you’re not my diamond, not that I have one or anything but still, man, back off_  
}”

“You should go home. I don’t think you’ll be able to find anything else on those tapes.”

“{  
Just a bit longer, sir.  
I think I’m getting close to something.  
}”

“Ugh, don’t call me Sir, we’re basically still the same rank, even if they did put me in charge. And you should still head back. The last time you stayed here this late, your lusus…"

“{  
Yes.  
Okay.  
I know.  
I’ll finish up soon.  
//_yes OBVIOUSLY i remember that it was the worst most embarrassing day of my life can’t BELIEVE they actually came to pick me up so if everyone could please stop reminding me that’d be great thanks bye now_  
}”

“Are you still seeing gaps in footage input?”

“{  
//_WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE  
_Yessir.  
It would appear that scouting drones are disappearing at an alarming rate.  
There don’t seem to be any patterns to the destruction.  
Not in location, not in method.  
}”

“What do you mean by method?”

“{  
Well, some drones simply seem to be going offline.  
No power supply shortages, no alerts, nothing.  
One second we have them, and the next, they’re totally off the grid.  
Other blackouts appear a little more…violent.  
//_dude just go i literally cannot work with you looking over my shoulder like PLEASE read the mood i am begging you please just nod and go take a 18hr nap or something you really need ittt_  
}”

“Violent _how_?”

“{  
//_i guess this is just my life now huh????  
_ In the brief snatches of footage I’ve been able to extract from them right before going offline, it appears as though most were short-circuited using psionics.  
I’ve analyzing the color and the energy dispersal patterns of the attacks.  
The most I’ve been able to determine is that there are at least two different psionics responsible.   
}”

“You said _most_ were psionically attacked. What about the others?”

“{  
Brute force.  
Attacking from blind spots, too, so no visuals from those, only audio.  
And what audio _could _be recovered is extremely distorted…  
  
}”

“Psionics _and_ brute force_…_huh_._ Well, in any case, excellent work, Sclepi. This could be the first real lead we’ve had yet. Take the rest of the night off- you’re looking pretty beat.”

“{  
//_H. WH.  
_//_UM??? OKAY??????????  
_ Alright, I’ll leave in the next hour.  
Sir.  
//_I GUESS????????? WHAT_  
}”

“_Agh, _for the last time, there’s really no need to call me that. Oh, one more thing— have you seen Lamout anywhere?”

“{  
Not since yesternight.  
//_time’s been a little weird for me though so who knows, could’ve been longer  
_I _could_ check the footage, if you want.

}”

“…No, don’t bother. Just going off past experience, if she ever heads off without warning, it’s probably better we don’t know why.”

* * *

“s1r, 1f you could please just tell us who stabbed you—”

“Hey, don’t you rush me. _I’m_ the one who’s been injured, you know. Shouldn’t you have a little more sympathy for victims?”

“1 would apprec1ate 1t 1f you would descr1be the assa1lant to me _please_.”

“And now I’m getting _sarcasm_? You know what this is? Persecution.”

“persecut1on for…what, exactly?”

“Against _me_ for being injured. Honestly, the way the able-bodied treat the less-privileged is just—”

“zebruuh, youu dipshit, juust stop whining and tell her how youu got stabbed!”

“But she—”

“juust asked youu a normal quuestion!! besides, youu’re already healed! i stuuck youu in the medicalizer for like two days!!”

“Hrmph. I still think it could’ve been longer, you know. I swear I can still feel the wound ache from time to time.”

“want _me_ to stab youu?”

“No need. Besides, I doubt those short little arms of yours could even reach.”

“m1ss erdehn. mr codakk. unless one of you actually has a statement to make 1m go1ng to assume youre wast1ng my t1me.”

“You see what I mean? _Total_ disrespect. And here _I_ thought ceruleans were supposed to be disciplined.”

“zebruuh if youu dont stop whining i swear im going to duump youur body back on the roadside where i fouund youu.”

“_Fine. _The memories are a bit hazy, but it was definitely a jade. Kind of tall, frumpy, had ugly pink glasses on. _Really_ nasty face. Nasty personality too, I bet—”

“1 th1nk thatll be enough, thank you. well alert you 1f there are any further developments.”

* * *

“You have a λoveλy hive. Are those paintings yours?”

“Hah, I suppose so. The byproduques of an earlier era. Much of what I create _these_ nights is not so childishly derivative.”

“Hmm.”

“Excuse moi for being so blunte, but is there a _reason_ you came here, Zan? Not that it isn’t nice to have an olde ami drop by with no warning, but you really couldn’t have called in advance? I have a gallery opening tomorrow to prepare for.”

“Oh, I hadn’t known that. Sorry. Teλλ me more about it?”

“Hmph, welle…for an olde ami, perhaps I could spare some time. The exhibite’s primary raison d'être is to officially showcase my new aesthetique. You see, I have decided it is finally time to officially rebrand myselfe as an artiste.”

“Reaλλy? Thought you λoved your oλd art styλe.”

“Come now, no need to beat around the bush, Zan. You know just as welle as I that my “art style” was a contradiction unto itselfe.”

“Eh. I aλways thought it suited you.”

“Welle, it _has_ been some time, hasn’t it. Time enough for me to— ah—"

“You feeλing aλright?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve just been getting a lot of headaques recently. Not a concern for medicull attention, I believe, but it is _quite_ irritating.”

“How λong?”

“Mm?”

“Since the headaches started.”

“Welle, _everyone_ gets headaches from time to time, Zan. But as for when they started getting bad…mmm…I woulde say about three wipes ago?”

“Not Zan.”

“What?”

“You’ve never caλλed me Zan before. Why do you keep caλλing me that?”

“I…I’m sorry, I didn’t…welle, it’s not too unusual a nickname for Zanzin, right? Sounds rather chic.”

“Remeλe.”

“Yes?”

“Do you or do you not remember what my nickname is.”

“That’s— I—”

“What happened to you three wipes ago, Remeλe?”

“Za— Zanzin, I don’t _know, _I can’t remember—”

“What happened to you the day the green moon broke open? Do you remember?”

“STOP ASQUING ME THAT!!"

“………”

“I don’t know _why_ you really came here tonight, and I really don’t care. But please, just _leave_. My thinkpan feels awful and I need to rest if I’m going to be able to make it to the gallery tomorrow. Just go away.”

“One more question.”

“Get _out.”_

“Just one more. One more and I’λλ λeave you aλone. I promise.”

“…_Fine_. Go on, asque.”

“Does the name Fozzer Veλyes mean anything to you?”

* * *

“I have to admit, I’m pretty surprised by this.”

?

“After two full wipes of nothing but dead ends and ruined imperial property, I was really starting to think we weren’t going to get anywhere. Even made arrangements for a hatchmate to look after my lusus for when I got culled. The old girl’s probably not gonna go quietly, but hey, may as well try. And now you just…walk right in?”

.

“Well?”

I want a legislacerator.

“_What?”_

You heard me. If you’re gonna start asking me questions, let me call my legislacerator first.

“Hah. You’re joking. Nice try, but only imperial subjects can—"

I’m in the system, aren’t I? Have been for a while. Doesn’t that make me a subject? Last I heard, that was all anyone needed.

“You’re failing to take a number of other factors into account. The right to a defense legislacerator is reserved to castes teal and higher. And, if my forensic team’s report holds any merit—let’s see now, I believe it was on this page— oh, that’s right, _you’re not in any caste.”_

Actually, by my planet’s standards, I’m in the highest caste there is.

“_This isn’t your planet._ In fact, by calling yourself a resident of another planet, you’re pretty much undermining your own argument. Are you Alternian, or are you not? Because if that’s still true, then for however much longer that argument stands, you are subject to _this_ caste system.” 

Okay, okay, I was kidding. But think about it. Legally, I’m an Alternian. We both know that. But I’m not a _troll_. You and me and that report you’ve got right over there can all agree on that. So you can’t mark me as an “off-spectrum mutant troll” because I’m _not_ a mutant troll. I’m an alien. And tell me, pal, is there any law out there that says an _alien_ Alternian can’t call up a legislacerator?

“Is there a—? Okay, alright, enough of this. Listen to me very carefully. I am under no obligation to take you seriously. Matter of fact, I haven’t been taking you seriously the whole time you’ve been here. And why should I? You’re here, after all. I could have you taken care of easily. Could do it myself, in fact, if it means ending this absolute nightmare of a job.” 

I mean, sure you could. You’re a detective-quisitor thing or whatever. You could just reach into my head, take whatever intel you wanted, and get rid of me.

“Glad to see you’re finally starting to understand the reality of the situation you’re in.”

But that’d be illegal.

“No, it— wh— it— _what?_”

You can’t run an inquisition on someone if they’ve already got an official court date.

“There is no possible way you have an official court date.”

It’s in the system.

“It shouldn’t be. And if it is, it’s there by illegal means.”

Nopety nope nope. Nothing illegal about it. I requested a hearing and I got one. Badabing badaboom.

“…”

Oh, except, like, I apparently need to be in custody first. So yeah. Hey. What’s up.

“………”

So what’s _your_ name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last interlude! Back to 2nd-person POV next week.  
_  
I don't have full profiles for any of the fantrolls yet, but here are the basic details of the four introduced in this chapter:
> 
> NAME: Allyll Recomb  
PRONOUNS: they/them  
SIGN: Scorcen, sign of the Uniter (Cerulean + Derse + Blood)  
TYPING QUIRK: Sentence parts bridged with lines resembling the bond pattern of an allyl group (-=text=-=more text=-)  
MISC: Objectively the powerful psychic of the group. Just trying to do their best.
> 
> NAME: Cerbis Vipera  
PRONOUNS: he/him  
SIGN: Scorittanius, sign of the Righteous (Cerulean + Prospit + Void)  
TYPING QUIRK: Triple s. Sentences begin and end with an "approximately equal to" symbol (≈).  
MISC: Lots of energy, lots of ideas, not always clear on where to direct either of those things.
> 
> NAME: Decimo Sclepi  
PRONOUNS: he/him  
SIGN: Scorpia, sign of the Emperor (Cerulean + Derse + Light)  
TYPING QUIRK: Formatted to look like coding language, minus the (;) at the end of sentences. Kind of the reverse of Mallek's quirk, I guess? Inner thoughts are "commented out" //_like this._  
MISC: The Tech Guy. Uncertain as all hell and not as good as hiding it as he thinks he is. Just wants to be in control. Don’t we all?
> 
> NAME: Zanzin Lamout  
PRONOUNS: she/her  
SIGN: Scormino, sign of the Fatalistic (Cerulean + Prospit + Doom)  
TYPING QUIRK: All letter Ls replaced with lambda symbols.  
MISC: Has as a really good sixth sense for things that could be potentially troublesome in the future, and will occasionally go off on her own to take care of these potential problems before they can start, usually without really bothering to tell the rest of the team. So she’ll just go off with no warning from time to time. Vitaal has come to trust her instincts and honestly, the guy’s too tired to deal with it. The others are a little more perturbed.


	39. Of Hesitance and Hypotheticals

Your name is AZDAJA KNELAX, for now, and you had always thought you were the most powerful thing in the sky.

You don’t remember the exact moment you learned to fly. Yet you can remember your first fall all too well— five sweeps old, you hit your head while showing off to some of your broodmates. None of _them_ could fly yet, and so, you were alone.

Had they asked you to show them? Or was it all your idea? You don’t remember. You _do_ remember how their expressions changed just before you hit that pole. Not many of them were upset.

The hit was enough to stun you, but not to knock you out, so you were conscious when you fell. You’re fortunate that it wasn’t far enough to kill you. Still, the seconds you spent between the sky and the ground have lived in your thinkpan ever since. It was a clear night; the whole of the sky seemed to stare down at you as you slipped from its grasp. Yet it made no move to reclaim you, and you remember being surprised by that, for some reason.

Still, that was _one time_. You haven’t fallen _once_ since then. You’ve beyond perfected your powers of psionic levitation, honing it to the finest of fine points. More than once, you’ve spent entire nights airborne, only descending to the level of commoners when the sun demanded it. (You’ve tried creating a psionic barrier to block out even sunlight, to no avail— if anything, psi particles only seem to amplify it, leaving you with some nasty burns. Stupid sun. You’ll get there someday.)

Once you’re airborne, _nothing_ can stop you. You are the sovereign of the sky, unconquered, unparalleled. You laugh in the face of gravity and spit in the eye of impossibility. The horizon is _your_ domain, and no one can or ever will take it from you.

Or so you tell yourself, with varying degrees of emphasis, as you watch the Empress’ flagship make its descent.

The logical part of your mind knows that the ship is, in fact, very, very far away from here. You don’t know the exact numbers, but you know for a fact that the Empress’ undersea palace isn’t anywhere near Thrashthrust. The _ocean_ isn’t anywhere near Thrashthrust. You could fly to the edge of the city limits relatively closest to the sea on a clear night and squint and all you’d see is a thin purplish line. So the fact that you can see the ship well enough to count each individual turret from here is…

Well. It’s something. Not _frightening_, that’s for sure. Not at all. The coldness that beads at your forehead as you stare at the immense shape on the horizon must be because of the humidity, that’s all.

The ship is unaccompanied, as far as you can see. According to the intel scrounged by the cerulean guy your auspistice may or may not pity, a good chunk of the fleet is still besieging the last planet the Empress had been targeting prior to the current situation. Those she brought with her are still en route, set to arrive somewhere between two and six wipes. Not the most _helpful_ estimate, but at least it’s something. But for the flagship to have arrived that much sooner than they did…

You look at it again. The biggest spacecraft you’ve ever seen until now were the conscription shuttles, and those weren’t even half as big as the Empress’ cruiser. The things you’d learned back in your helming schoolfeeds come slowly trickling into the forefront of your mind. Normally, for any spacecraft larger than a Sturgeon-class IC-024, multiple helmspersons are required, with rotating shifts so as to avoid burning them all out at once. All require at _least_ two helms active at a time, three if more than 60% of weapons systems are online, four if complex maneuvers are needed on top of that.

All except one, that is.

An unidentifiable feeling settles in your acid tract.

…It’s got to _hurt_, right? You can’t just do something like that _on your own_ without it hurting. Although, you have to wonder— would the pain mean anything at all, after all those millennia? Would it really be anything more than another flurry of electrical impulses among hundreds of thousands, coursing in an endless rush along pumptube and circuit alike? After all those years, do they even know the difference?

Do they even care?

They probably wouldn’t get to sleep much, either, you consider. Not if their sleeping means the ship losing all power. But surely they’d have auxiliary support or backup systems or _something_, right? A machine might not need to sleep, but a troll…no. No, it wouldn’t be possible. Unless, of course, their mind has no conception of sleep or wakefulness, not anymore. Binary thoughts and binary dreams, clicking softly in the dark. Are their eyes open or are they shut? You wonder.

They’d taught you about permanent helms, of course. You’d seen the pictures. Too many, probably. Were the pilots’ eyes shut in those pictures? It was hard to tell. Or maybe you just weren’t focusing on their eyes at the time. There certainly were a lot of other things to focus on.

You become aware of the sound of your own breathing, harsh and too-loud. Would a helmsman breathe? Or would they have systems for _that_, too? At what point does the body just become redundant, an empty husk left to rot and fester deep in the ship’s stinking bowels as the mind frees itself to become something so much more magnificent? A being so great and powerful that it could set the void alight and devour the stars, with pumptubes of oil, bones of steel, and a heart full of fire.

You wonder how it must feel for them to fly.

The shape disappears beyond the horizon, and you hurriedly shake yourself out of those thoughts, although the weird feeling in your gut persists. You suddenly become aware of the sound of your own name being shouted over and over again with increasing volume and irritation.

You look down and see your matesp— your moir— your Konyyl staring up at you, scowling, arms crossed. The thought that she might have _seen_ you staring mindlessly at the flagship suddenly crosses your mind, and can’t suppress the jolt of shame and guilt that immediately follows. How ridiculous. What were you even thinking? _You, _a mindless battery? That’s— that would be— no. That’s just stupid. Besides, if they hook you up to a giant hunk of metal, who’s going to be there to have Konyyl’s back? To keep her from doing stupid reckless things that get her killed? You can’t leave _her_. Or your other partner, for that matter. Which reminds you…

You descend back to the ground and nod once at Konyyl in a wordless all-clear signal. She nods back and hollers something to that effect to the bronzeblood guy tinkering on something a couple meters away, who gives a brief thumbs-up and then goes right back to work.

The shuttlepod the guy’s working on is tiny in comparison to HIC’s cruiser. Still, it’s big enough to fit at least thirty adults, or at least it _was_ before repairs started. Now it’s a bit smaller. For trolls not past their final molt, however, it’s still very much big enough for thirty, maybe more.

The bronzeblood looks up as you wander over to the vehicle. “~So, you like flying, eh?~” he says brightly.

How are you supposed to respond to that? “|||…Yes? |||”

His eyes seem to sparkle even behind the cracked and dusty goggles. “~Oh, that’s swell! So do I!~”

Uh. Er. Okay? What’s the deal with this guy? You know he’s friends with your other partner, but that really doesn’t tell you anything, considering that they seem to have absolutely zero standards for people.

Which doesn’t apply to _you_, of course. Clearly their decision to enter a quadrant with both you and Konyyl was one made in exceptional taste.

The other troll— Vikker, or something? Is somehow still talking at you as he works, gabbling something about elevation and drag, when a stout young troll comes hurrying up, clutching a large sealed container in his arms. He hands it off to Viksomething, who cuts off long enough to take it and thank the younger troll heartily. The other troll nods, and for just a second you see him steal a quick look at you before looking away just as quickly. Oh, now he looks familiar— he’s the kid who lives at the hive not too far from the scrapyard. This is only the second time you’ve seen him, but he’s been jumpy around both you and Konyyl ever since you helped bring back his lusus from the bandits. Weird.

You hear Konyyl make a noise of surprise and turn to look back at the bronzeblood troll, who appears to be pouring some thick amber liquid directly into the fuel tank. It almost looks like—

“is that MIND HONEY??” Konyyl blurts out. At the same time, she grabs you by the waist and pulls you back a little, which, while unnecessary, is very sweet and kind of nice.

“~Not quite!~” hums the pilot, putting down the container and carefully replacing the sealing cap on the fuel tank. He then proceeds to not explain what he meant by those words.

“||| Not quite? |||” you repeat.

“~Not _quite_ mind honey. It’s a mind-honey based alternative energy source that, if effective, _should_ allow for greater speeds and distances to be reached on less fuel! Which oughta aid us very well in an interstellar escape, I should think!~” He gestures to the younger troll, “~Thanks to the high-grade hone my good friend’s bees were able to produce in such a short amount of time, we can now finally test it!~”

Something about that sentence grabs at you. “Finally” test it? Does that mean he doesn’t even know if it’ll work?

“so why do you need US?” Ah, Konyyl, asking the most pertinent questions as always. Despite all she says about her own intelligence, by all accounts she’s one of the sharpest trolls you know.

“~Well—~”

“—it waz my idea!!” Blurts out the mustardblood boy, wringing his prongs in apparent anxiety. “itz just— you two seemed so _strong_ when you showed up before, so i thought maybe you could…”

“we could WHAT?”

He’s cowering now, which makes you feel a little bit sorry for him, but also kind of proud because _damn_ your moirsprit is good at being scary. “well—just in case something went wrong, you could like, help?? with stuff??”

“|||…stuff? |||”

He takes a deep breath, and— “like if vikare startz up the ship and itz all going great and itz in the air and everything iz wonderful but THEN it startz breaking down and exploding partz all over the place and hez inside or close by and so am i and i dont _have_ the right kind of psionicz and thingz start going on fire and someonez leg getz pinned by heavy rubble and—”

“||| Alright, alright, I get it. |||” Great. So it’s grubsitting. And you’re not even getting paid for it, either, because they’re technically your _friends._ Your alien’s lucky you love them enough to do things like this for their sake. _Damn_ you miss them. It’s been so long since you last heard them on the husk. _Three whole days._ When all of this is over, you’re going to have them move in with you and Konyyl for sure.

_If_ this all ends well.

…You still don’t quite know what you’re going to do. Until now, you and Konyyl have been doing your best fighting drones, but even one as gifted and talented as _you_ couldn’t take down the entire Imperial fleet. You know this. Which leaves the _other_ plan, the one whose key element is sputtering and producing weird noises from its engine right in front of you at this very moment.

Everything you know about the other plan comes from that rustblood woman, Houtek, the one who’s been working to sabotage Imperial investigations alongside that idiot Maxlol and a few others. Said plan, as far as you know, consists of putting your alien partner on the shuttle, along with a medley of other trolls looking to escape offworld, and escaping the planet entirely. Said escape, as far as _you_ know, is set to take place during a mass blackout, the semantics of which you don’t know but which you suspect will have a lot to do with Maxlol and Darane. And that’s pretty much all you know, because when Houtek asked if you planned to leave along with them, you didn’t have an answer.

But you know Konyyl does. You know perfectly well what her decision is, and that the only reason she didn’t say it _then _is because she’s waiting for you to make yours.

So why haven’t you?

It can’t be fear. It can’t be. You wouldn’t be _afraid_ of something like this. You’re just…considering, that’s all. Why else would you not have answered? There’s nothing _for_ you here, not unless you want to be a battery. Because of _course_ that’s what they’ll do to you when you get conscripted. You may be a princely paragon of psionic power but you aren’t _stupid_.

You’re just thinking, that’s all. Always good to think things through. It’s what you’re good at.

You watch as the other two trolls apart from you and Konyyl putter around a bit longer before the bronzeblood, who you manage to glean is called Vikare, gives the goldblood boy a thumbs-up and climbs up into the pilot’s seat. The younger troll backs up, and you do the same, giving the vehicle a wide berth.

You’ve only seen a few like this shuttle in your time, but the noise the engine makes when it powers on is startling. Rather than a hum, it gives off more of a buzz, which grows steadily louder and louder until it's all you can hear. Slowly, steadily, the shuttlepod heaves itself off the ground and wobbles into the air, one foot, three feet, then five, then eleven. You ready your psionics and wait to hear a sound of impending disaster.

But nothing comes. The shuttlepod wheels itself in circles around the scrapyard a few times, growing slightly more steady with each turn. Finally, it returns to its initial location and slowly lowers down, throwing out clouds of dust; you have to raise your arm to keep it from getting in your face.

The hatch on the side pops open, releasing an honestly rather disturbing amount of smoke and a grinning pilot. “~IT WORKS!~”

Oh. Huh. Looks like it does.

You feel your partner’s eyes on you, but she doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse.

Rather than meet her gaze, you tip your head back to stare at the sky. This far from the city, the stars are clearly visible, a sparkling spray of foam splashed across a deep, wide purple-blue ocean.

You wonder if you could survive that great unknown, simply as yourself, nothing more, nothing less.

You decide you may as well find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it helmsperson, battery, or pilot? Not sure, but I tend to use them interchangeably. Do you guys agree, or do you see them as separate jobs?


	40. Of Escapes and Enchantments, Tempting

Your name is BRONYA URSAMA and you thought you could handle disappointment.

How could you not, after all these sweeps? For all your efforts, the brooding caverns is home to dozens of jades and dozens more tasks needing to be done on a nightly basis, and keeping track of them all while seeing to your _own_ duties means that things will occasionally fall through the cracks. Whether it’s a misheard order or a cleanup job left half-done or someone just _not turning up at all_ for their shift, these little slip-ups will always happen.

At this point you’ve accepted that it’s just easier for you to just cover the extra work yourself. After all, it’s _much_ faster to scrub and disinfect a few dozen rooms yourself than it is to track down the jades who were meant to do it in the first place. It’s like you always say: 1. Improvise. 2. Adapt. 3. Overcome!

Still. You’ve grown quite used to these little disappointments, but they sting, sometimes, each sinking into your bloodpusher like needles into a pincushion. You know, of course, that the other jades are under no obligation to follow your orders. It’s not like you’re their official _leader_ or anything, after all. You just sort of started telling people what you thought they ought to be doing one day, and…it worked. You learned to work with them, getting to know their strengths and weaknesses and assigning them to tasks that suited them best. You’ve tried to be as considerate as the massive workload could allow.

But they don’t _have_ to do as you say. They don’t _have_ to follow your schedules or attend your meetings or mark their shifts using the little boxes and forms you have set up. All you can really do is have faith that they really believe in their work, just as you do. You’d always hoped that would be enough. And when it’s _not_ enough, you just take responsibility and do the job yourself. Go with the flow, work with what you know, and keep moving forward.

But what you’re feeling right now, you realize, is not disappointment.

It’s _betrayal._

It comes as a shock, a sharp, nauseating jerk in your thorax like a cold-pronged hand constricting your bloodpusher. You can’t move, you can’t speak, you can barely _breathe_; you can only stare at the troll before you, refusing to believe you really heard those words from her mouth.

“-bronya, you !! are you okay ??”

She’s coming closer. Can’t afford to show weakness, not now, even though covering those two extra shifts is taking a toll. You force yourself upright, ignoring the screaming ache along your back and shoulders, and look her right in the eyes.

“vV They’re _LEAVING? _Vv”

Your voice comes out grating and hoarse and much louder than you’d intended. You see her flinch, then recover herself, inhaling and exhaling sharply and straightening up a little.

“-yes.” Lynera takes another deep breath, as though steeling herself for something, and then-

“and !! i think you should go with them !!”

It takes you a few seconds to process her words. _What? _Go _with _them?

That’s— that’s absurd. Why would they— or _did_ they? who— why _you?_ Could you even…? No, no, of course not, you have a duty to your jades, to the Mother Grub sleeping just down the hall, to your _childre—_ to your temporary charges. They all need you _here_. If you left, now or any other time, who could say what would become of them…

You think you may need to take a rest soon. The combined stress of the extra shifts and the missing jades and and now _this_ is starting to make your thinkpan fizzle.

“Why?” you ask. “Why would they even _ask_ me that? After all these sweeps, _those_ two decide they’re just going to 1. Completely reject their duties as jades, 2. Run off to who-knows-where, and now 3. They have the nerve to use _you_ to ask _me _if I want to do the same?! Why would they—”

You see the look on Lynera’s face, then. It isn’t one you think you’ve ever seen before, a strange and painful combination of fear, regret, and guilt.

And then you realize it.

“…They weren’t going to ask me at all, were they.”

She gives a small, jerky nod.

“They asked _you_, and you decided to…” you trail off. Because of _course_ they knew you couldn’t leave. Lanque and Daraya may not care for your leadership at the best of times, but they know you well enough to understand what your answer would have been, and so they hadn’t bothered. It almost makes you want to laugh, though not from mirth. Are you really _that_ predictable? Good old Bronya, that ever-reliable worker, never straying from her duties. The workaholic control freak, never changing, never moving unless moved, stubbornly remaining a fixed point in time and space, for fear that everything will fall apart as soon as you move beyond the safe boundaries of rules and tradition.

There had been a time, once, when you dreamed about leaving. Where you spent hours fantasizing about what it would be like to have been born into any other caste, or on another version of Alternia, one where you aren’t so needed and so watched that you could do as you pleased. But those were only fantasies. How could you leave? How could _they_ leave, when the planet’s future rests on your collective shoulders?

“…Why are you here, Lynera?”

She fidgets, and then: “-i thought …! if anyone deserves a chance to leave ! …it would be you !” She looks up to meet your gaze, and the intensity of the determination there startles you. “-youve done so much !! so !! ill take it from here !! i promise ill look after everyone !!”

A swell of unexpected pity pushes up against your ribcage. You push it right back down. No time for that.

“Lynera. Thank you, but…I can’t just _leave._ And to where? For how long? Do they even have a plan?” The questions fall out of you in a rush, releasing the bottled-up concerns that had been welling up in you ever since you heard of what Lanque and Daraya were planning.

“-they do !! actually !! as do the others who are planning to leave !!” She says hurriedly. “-they managed to get maps of some outposts and smaller colonies in the empire !! which shouldnt be hard to—”

“vV Do you think they’ll be safe? Vv”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “-but ! its still a pretty good chance !”

And there it is. A _chance._ Do those two really think a _chance _is worth abandoning their duties as jades? Of course you’re not going to go along with this, let alone even _encourage_ this. Regardless of whether or not you feel tempted—and you _don’t_, of course you don’t— it’s far too dangerous. As for those two…you’re going to need to have a word with them.

You say as much to Lynera, who looks crushed. You force yourself not to look at her expression. Instead, you go to fetch your palmhusk, intending to call to find out where Daraya and Lanque are and dissuade them from this “escaping” nonsense.

The first notification on the screen makes your bloodpusher drop directly into your acid tract.

* * *

Your name is KARAKO PIEROT! And you’re beginning to feel kind of like these people don’t know where they’re going. Which is kind of silly. _You_ always know where you’re going. So how come these big trolls seem so lost?

You’ve been following those two for a little while now. When you saw them trampling around one of your usual hideouts in the woods, you went to take a peek at them. To your surprise, they looked kind of like you! Nobody at home has horns like you. Your lusus always says it’s because you’re a special grub, but _these_ trolls have horns that look just like yours. Are they special, too? You really want to talk to them. Maybe they’ll want to be your friend?

You REALLY want to talk to them. But your lusus always told you not to talk to strange trolls. So you kind of just decided to follow them. Maybe they talk like you, too?

“shut _up_, 1 know where 1m go1ng.”

Well, they don’t talk like you. Aw. Maybe the other one does?

“≈i told you it wasss that way!≈”

Well, okay. But they don’t talk like each _other_, either, so maybe that’s normal.

“the last t1me we trusted one of _your_ sources, we ended up 1n the ocean.”

They seem a little lost. Maybe if they get _really_ lost, you could come out and help them? You don’t know what they’re looking for, but your lusus always taught you to be polite, so you could try.

The trolls argue for a little while and then start off in the other direction. You follow. What could they be looking for waaay out here?

After a little while, you start to hear something. It sounds like…music? Daraya showed you some music on her husk once when Bronya wasn’t there. But this doesn’t sound anything like that. Daraya’s music was a lot of yelling and thumping noises and bwwwooooms. This sounds…different. More than that, it _feels_ different. It feels like the sound is coming from the distance and from the inside of your pan at the same time. It has a nice tingly feeling, like when you drink too much soda and there’s a fizzy feeling in your acid tract, except this time the fizzy feeling is in your _blood_.

You want to hear more of it.

The trolls keep moving towards the sound, faster now, and you keep following by hopping from tree to tree. You think you know this area. They should be reaching a big empty clearing right about…now…

Except the clearing isn’t empty. It’s _sparkling_, all full of shiny lights and big colorful hives made of cloth and lots of people with horns kind of like yours. It’s so _loud_, but the loudest thing of all is that pretty music, whirling and spinning over everything.

You decide to follow it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, this one's rather short, as Eid preparations are keeping me pretty busy. But, I hope you guys are all doing well and staying safe, and you can expect a regular-length chapter next weekend. I hope.


	41. Of Festivities and Fortuity, Encountered

Your name is KARAKO PIEROT, and you think your thinkpan is about to explode.

Everything is just so _colorful!_ You thought you knew all about colors, but now it feels like a new one just explodes into existence every time you blink. It would probably take you a million sweeps to learn all their names. Everyone’s wearing such beautiful clothes, with little sparkly shiny things all over them. You thought Daraya had super cool jewelry, but some of _this_ stuff is way crazier than anything you’ve ever seen in her block. You wish you had stuff like that.

Is this a party? You’ve heard a little bit about parties. First from Lanque, who showed you some videos of people talking and laughing and dancing, then from your lusus, who took away Lanque’s husk and told you to never, ever go to parties, _ever_. Unless you’re invited, and you know they’re good people, she’d added. Well, nobody really invited you, but it doesn’t seem those two trolls you followed had invitations, either. They just walked in. Plus, everything’s outside, and the parties Lanque showed you were all _inside. _So maybe it’s not a party? But there’s a lot of talking and laughing and dancing, too, and everybody’s dressed so nice, and that music is just _so pretty…_

This is really getting confusing.

You hover on the edge of the clearing and think about it. Well, the moons are still way up high, so it’s not come-home-time or sleepytime yet. Which means you still have time for exploring. And, if you’re just going in to look at stuff, that’s basically exploring. All you gotta do is keep quiet and try not to get in anyone’s way, and things will be fine. That’s what your lusus always said to do when there’s a lot of strangers and she’s not there. Which never actually happened before, so this is the perfect time to try! You’ll be the politest, most best-mannered little grub ever, and people won’t get mad at you or yell at you, and she’ll be _so_ proud when she finds out.

But before you go in, you should probably clean up a little bit first. You don’t want people to think your lusus is a bad lusus, or anything. You use some of the water you have on your belt to wash off some of the dirt on your face and hands. There. But you still look really different from all the cool shiny people in the clearing. Maybe you could… oh, wait!

You turn your shorts pockets inside-out on the grass. Let’s see, you got a cool rock, a scarabmander shell, a few flowers, a rock, an empty soda can, a rubber band, another rock…there! A string of plastic beads. The beads were clear white, but if you held them up to the light you could see little pink and blue glints on them. Your favorite grubsitter gave them to you. Your lusus Bronya doesn’t really seem like she likes them that much, but you know that if she got to know them she’d see that they’re the best.

You carefully stretch your arms up maneuver the beads over your horns, one by one, so that they can rest around your neck. You have to be careful not to get the string caught on the sharp points and break it. That’s why you only have one of these left! Luckily, you manage not to break it.

You consider maybe taking off your special necklace, the one with your sign on it, because it kinda gets in the way, and wearing more than one thing is probably gonna make your neck hurt later. You take it off and stick it in your pocket. It should be fine, if you’re only gonna be exploring for a little while anyways.

With your accessory equipped and your face clean as a freshly stripped cluckbeast skeleton, you walk into the clearing. As you get closer, you can see it’s not just a chaotic mess of people and lights, but that there are actual fixtures here and there; all around the perimeter there’s these fold-out tables and stands with little signs over them, kind of like the ones in those PurrbeastCon pictures Wanshi showed you, except some of them seem to be serving food and items and other ones seem to be set up for people to play games. Also, the colors aren’t just on the clothes and the decorations, they’re in the _air_, too, big clouds of colorful, sparkly dust poofing out of tubes sticking out of the ground here and there. They smell like sugar and make your head feel a little funny.

In the middle of everything, there’s a big hive made out of stripy fabric. You’ve never seen a hive like _that_ before. It reminds you of the blanket fort you made with Wanshi, except really, _really_ big. So even older trolls like blanket forts! What a relief. You were worried that might change when you got older. You aren’t very old, but everyone around you always seems worried about that kind of thing. You hope that, even if you and everybody else gets older, you never have to change. You’re really happy with just being you.

Except maybe height. Being taller would be cool. That way you wouldn’t have to jump to grab tall branches and stuff.

There are a few other fabric buildings set up here and there, but none even half as big as the one in the center. What’s more, the wonderful music you heard— the music that seems to fill up your thorax and resound with each beat of your bloodpusher— seems like it’s coming directly from it. It’s the most perfect sound, all bellsy and twinkly and chimey, spinning all around you like ribbons. You want to bundle up that sound that’s making your blood fizz and hold it real tight and never let go.

Ahead of you, you see the trolls from before walk right up to the fort. They stop for a minute, say something you can’t hear, and then a big section of the fort folds open. One after the other, they duck inside the flap and disappear. The cloth flutters back into place behind them, but not before you get a glimpse of a massive stage lit up in what seems to be every color that’s ever existed, with a huge crowd of trolls surrounding it. In that brief second, you also hear a snatch of that music, totally unmuffled, and it’s somehow a million times more beautiful.

You have to go there.

You walk right up to the place where the other two went in and reach for the cloth. It’s heavier than you thought. Grabbing the edge of the seam with both hands, you pull it to the side, opening up just a little sliver through which you can see the-

“hey, step b&ck!”

A big hand pushes through the gap and shoves you back. You lose your footing and fall to the grass, landing on your backside. Hey, that was rude!

A troll steps through the gap wearing a really mean look on his face. It’s a lot like the look Lynera got when she found you looking at the cool knives in her closet without permission.

Uh-oh. Are you in trouble?

“you c&n’t just walk in here. don’t you…” The troll who just stepped out onto the grass looks around confused for a few seconds before looking down and spotting you. “casten&me and sign?” He continues, taking out one of those flippy board things your lusus sometimes uses.

Um. Are you allowed to tell people that stuff? This person is a stranger, but he also seems like he’s In Charge of stuff, and usually if people are In Charge you’re supposed to listen when they talk.

You tell him your name. He looks even more confused, brow all scrunched up. “wh&t? say it &g&in.”

You tell him your name again. The troll gives a big sigh and rolls his eyes, flipping open the first page on the clipboard in front of him. “wh&tever you s&y. do you h&ve your sign, &t le&st?”

You do! You take it out of your pocket and show it to him.

The troll flips through the pages on the board in front of him, occasionally looking back and forth between the sign on your medallion and the paper. Then, he lets the papers fall with a _thwap_ and crosses his arms. “scr&m. entry is for congreg&tion members only.”

Aw, what! But it sounds so _nice_ in there!

The guard just glares. “i don’t m&ke the rules, grub.”

And what’s a congregation, anyway? Is it like a club? How do you join?

The big troll’s eyes go super wide. “how do you not…” He looks really hard at you then, especially the face. “oh, messi&hs &bove, you don’t even h&ve proper _p&int _on. you c&n’t h&ve &nyone seeing you like _th&t_.”

How come?

“how c— wh&t &re you, fresh from the c&verns or something?! how old &re you?”

You tell him that yes, you are, and that you are almost four sweeps old, thank you very much!

“_four?_ but then- how &re you so sm&ll, it doesn’t-"

Oh, now the guard looks even more confused. He’s kinda muttering to himself and looking from you to the tent to the trolls starting to gather behind you, waiting to get in. Then he steps forward and crouches so he can look you in the eyes.

“listen,” he says, and ooh, why’s he whispering? Is this a secret? You’re the best at keeping secrets. “i don’t know how you got here, but you h&ve to le&ve. it isn’t s&fe for wigglers like you.”

Huh? Why wouldn’t it be safe?

“if you st&y here &ny longer, others will st&rt to notice. just _go_.”

With that, he gives you a hard shove. “_go!”_ he hisses, and then, more loudly, “stupid wigglers, &lw&ys holding things up, &m i right?”

You hear a few people behind you laugh. Hey, how dare they! You’re about to go for your knives, but pause when the guard shoots you a Look. You don’t really know what it means or what’s going on, but something in that expression tells you that it’s better if you leave, for now.

Whatever. You’ll just sneak in later when the guard’s not looking.

You end up wandering off to go look at the booths. You are overjoyed to find a knife-throwing game with a whole bunch of plush toys strung up behind it. The sign next to them reads 3 ATTEMPTS; 1 HORNBEASTEYE = 1 PRIZE. And there’s no line, either! That’s perfect!

However, as you get closer, you see that it’s being closed up; the troll behind the booth is taking down the target and the big rack full of prizes. Aw, you wanted to bring back some plushies for your hivemates! As you look around, you realize that most of the other trolls are packing up, too, even the ones running the snack stalls. They’re all starting to head towards the big fort right in the middle, the one you got kicked out of. You have to dart to the side to avoid getting crushed by the wave of people heading the opposite way as you.

Hmm. Most of them seem to be coming through the same entrance you tried earlier…maybe if you go around from the other side?

You take a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching you, then dart towards the edge of the clearing, where shadows pool beneath the eaves of the trees. You circle the area, carefully and quietly picking your way through the trees and foliage and dodging the occasional scytheweed where they try to nip at your strut sticks.

Eventually, you find yourself on the other side. You climb up to perch in the branches of a nearby tree and peer through the leaves to look at the big tent. To your dismay, there’s _another_ guard on the other side, which shouldn’t be too tricky to get around, except there’s more trolls lining up to get their signs checked on _this_ side, too. Awww. Maybe there’s a way to slip under one of the edges of the cloth? But they look like they’re all nailed down, and if you tried to pry up one of the corners with a knife you’d probably be spotted, if not by someone standing guard then by someone inside.

Hmm. Maybe you could try the top…there isn’t an opening, but you could probably hack open the thick canvas with your knives if no one was hindering you, which there wouldn’t be, because you’d be way up there. Problem is, the tree line is pretty far from the big tent at the center of the clearing. Even if you climbed way up to the tippy-top branch of the closest tree and tried to jump for it, the gap would be…really, _really_ far. Not impossible, but you’d be more likely to slide down the side than land a sturdy foothold.

Another burble of that music sounds from down below. You look up to where the moons are reaching their zenith in the bright starry sky and realize that you probably won’t get to go inside and hear it, alongside all those other trolls who look a little like you. You can’t get in ‘cuz they just looked at your sign and asked you questions full of words you didn’t understand and then you got shooed away like you’re an itty bitty baby grub or something.

They didn’t _want_ you.

You shuffle along the branch so that you can rest your back against the trunk of the tree, and sigh. And then sign again, because older trolls seem to do it a lot when they’re sad, and you feel really, really sad.

All you wanted was to make some new friends. Plus, you’ve never _seen_ trolls who look so much like you before, let alone this many of them. You love all your hivemates, but you never got why you looked so different from them, or why none of them seemed to like knives or adventuring or weird sodas or fighting as much as you do— well, fine, Lynera likes knives too, but she doesn’t like talking about them in front of other people and doesn’t like it when you borrow them. Wanshi says she’s “sensitive”, which you _think_ is a word for people who don’t like sharing knives.

You sigh again.

**“Whose motherFUCKING bellowsacs are making such and unfunny rumpus over there?”** asks the surrounding darkness.

You somersault out of the tree and land in a crouched position with both knives drawn. The darkness makes a terrible noise you think might be a chuckle and reaches out one massive shadowy hand to flick both knives from your hands like they’re twigs.

**“And whose lost little grubbling is THIS supposed to fucking be?”** it muses. You can’t make out any features, just a towering wall of shadow with two shining purple lights that regard you with amusement.

You’ve never seen a monster like this before, but you’re not gonna let a big bully just toss your stuff around like that. Besides, you were here first!

You draw two more knives and make the meanest face you can muster.

The shadow full-on laughs. The sound shakes the surrounding trees and makes your fangs rattle in your mouth. You’ve never heard _anybody_ laugh like that, wild and unrestrained and _full_, with a whole bunch of cackles and chortles and shrieks and snorts all rolled up in one. It’s a little scary, but mostly it just sounds like it’s having _fun_. Not like the laughs from earlier, where you felt like you were just being made fun of.

**“Fuckin’…incredible.”** the shadow-thing wheezes. **“Been way too motherfucking long since anyone who ain’t the sea hag tried to take a pump-sticker to me.”** The purple lights narrow. **“What’s got the little bug so riled up on such a holy night? Why ain’t you with your brethren?”**

You tell it that’s none of its business.

The shadow laughs again, shorter this time. Then the forest seems to get just a little bit darker. **_“That ain’t an answer.”_**

You’re beginning to feel scared, but you won’t back down, not from a monster you can’t even clearly see. Still, you get the feeling that telling it to mind its own business isn’t going to be a good idea this time.

So, you tell the shadow thing that you’re way over here because those jerks over there didn’t let you in the tent.

**“How come?”**

You say you don’t really get it either. You just wanted to see where the pretty music was coming from.

**“The music…”** the monster rumbles thoughtfully. **“Now, that’s a thing that that never did change. Not for our kind. Not in a hundred thousand sweeps or a million moonrises or the blessed double-death of the universe itself. There’s something about the pluck of a string and the beat of a drum that sets purple blood a-blazing like nothing else.” **Another chuckle shakes the ground and sends leaves tumbling from the trees.

See, _he_ gets it! Even this far away, it’s so close, the jingly-jangly notes dancing through the air and across your skin, like one, two, one, two, one…

You trail off as you suddenly sense the wall of darkness looking directly at you.

**“What’s that now?”**

What, the music? The music that’s coming from the big tent over there?

**“No, not that. They ain’t even started the ceremonial performances yet.”**

Really? Then where’s that music coming from? It’s so loud, too, even way out here. Can’t he hear it? The one that sounds kind of like _this_, and _that…_

There’s a pause. When the shadow-thing speaks again, its voice is a lot more quiet than before, and sounds kind of thoughtful. **“Yes, I can hear it. I’ve been hearing it for hundreds of sweeps.”**

_Hundreds_? What does it sound like at the very end?

A short bark of laughter. **“Who can say when it ends? Who among us can ever hope to know when the carousel stops spinning?” **The bright purple lights turn back on you, but less harsh than before, thankfully. Not like you were scared or anything, though. **“How long has the music of the Carnival been spinning in that little pan of yours, little grubbling?”**

When? Well…since you were a grub, you guess? It’s just never been so _loud_ before.

**“Since _hatching…_” **It muses. **“You got a caste sign, grub?”**

Oh. You have to think about that one for a moment. On one hand, this is a stranger. On the _other_ hand, this is a stranger who is also a massive looming shadow monster that could probably eat you in one bite.

You show it your caste sign.

The monster’s two purple eyes stay on the medallion in your upraised hand for what feels like a long, long time. Then, they slide shut, and it lets out a huge, heavy sigh. **_“Suppose it’d be too much to hope for…”_ **it mutters to itself.

You have absolutely no idea what _that’s_ supposed to mean, but the moons _are_ starting to sink and you’re pretty sure you need to get going soon if you want to make it home before sunrise!

Hm, but is this monster going to let you? Well, it hasn’t eaten you _yet_, and besides, it seems like it’s thinking about something right now. Might be a good time to escape! But what if it’s just waiting for you to run away so it can catch you? Some beasts do that. Your lusus used to keep a meowbeast around to keep the caves clean of pests, and it would do that all the time. She’d eventually had to get rid of it when Wanshi started doing RP battles against it and got scratched on the ear really badly. What a nasty meowbeast.

You sneak a look at the monster in the shadows. It looks like it’s kinda just thinking about something.

You start walking.

You stop walking.

You stop walking because something just picked you up by the back of your shirt and yanked you back and six feet up off the ground.

Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

**“And just where the fuck were you running off to, grub?”**

Home?

**“Well that’s a motherfuckin’ shame, because I was about to pay a little surprise visit on this here joke of a congregation. What do you say to coming along to help me judge the performances? Could always use a second set of bulbs, and if I ain’t mistaken, the Messiahs seem to have a real liking for that pan of yours.”**

Hm. Well, getting to see the performances and stuff _would_ be really nice. But could you please go home before curfew? You don’t want to scare your lusus.

**“Your _lusus?_ Purples have those now?” **The big monster muses.

Well, _you_ do. The best lusus in the world, in fact.

**“Well, that sounds motherfucking grand. Fine then. Wouldn’t want to invoke the wrath of the best lusus in the world, now would we?”**

No. No, you really, really wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GHB's a dad now. I've decided.
> 
> CONTINUITY NOTE: an edit was made regarding Zanzin’s interview with Remele in chapter 41, specifically the last line, which now references a different character entirely (Fozzer, not Chixie).
> 
> I hope you're all doing alright. Times are pretty awful all around; I hope we can all get through them.


	42. Of Confabs and Confidentiality

INITIALIZING…ESTABLISHING CONNTECTION…  
NOW RUNNING swag_encryption_version413.exe  
NOW RUNNING empiregtfo.exe  
NOW RUNNING programthatletsmerunmultiplesecurityprograms.exe  
NOW RUNNING ohshit.exe  
NOW RUNNING pleasework.exe   
NOW RUNNING PLEASEwork.exe  
CONNECTION SUCCESSFUL.  
YOU HAVE NOW OPENED CHAT.

-

user snakeBytes opened chat THE PLAN ??? at 04:00HRS  
user snakeBytes added 22 users

  
snakeBytes: mods = asleep post treason;  
hotdiggetydog: (| Wooo treason! |)  
bugsrcool: ……..ok…  
xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx: This entire gc is technical//y treason  
snakeBytes: real shit?;  
BadlyOverworked: yeah, there’s a lot of old ass legislacerative policies frommmm the mid- 400s re: intercaste gatherings that wwwwere never actually remmmmoved or ammmmended  
bettercallgorgor: Actually, I think you’ll find that’s not totally correct. *___________  
BadlyOverworked: don’t test mmmme gor   
BadlyOverworked: i have spent the last three wwwwipes burning through schoolfeeds and cases all the wwwway frommmm yesterday to swwwweep fucking one  
bettercallgorgor: Oh, I know. You think I didn’t notice when your name was moved to a different unit?   
bettercallgorgor: Which is why I’ve been… accelerating my studies, as well. You’re still a ways ahead of me, but that should no longer be true by tomorrow morning. *___________  
BadlyOverworked: wwwwowwww   
BadlyOverworked: you wwwwere really that insecure? i'mmmm not doing this for mmmme, you know, so if you’re just trying to mmmmake yourself out to be superior you can shove it up yours  
pwnageGenerator: >teal fight teal fight teal fight  
SpikedHellion: ▲ get his ass tyzias ▼  
bettercallgorgor: Hey, come on, Entykk. That’s not it at all.   
bettercallgorgor: If we’re going to be on the same legislacerative team, we ought to be on the same page, don’t you think? *___________  
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: wait whatz happening? what r we talking about? Z:?  
BadlyOverworked: wwwwhat.  
BadlyOverworked: sorry, i had to check that mmmmy mmmmug hadn’t been spiked for a second there.  
BadlyOverworked: teammmm? i didn’t say you could be on mmmmy legislacerative teammmm.   
bettercallgorgor: I didn’t ask.   
~DuelistPrince~: ||| It’s been two minutes since this chat was created, why is there already drama? |||  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: shut up lmao  
xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx: /oathe as I am to agree with a fake Sasuke kin, there are more important things we should be addressing  
oh_you_know_;): shh i wanna see how it pLays out  
snakeBytes: elwurd change your dn wtf;  
oh_you_know_;): no  
BadlyOverworked: i'mmmmm doing this alone and that’s final.  
BadlyOverworked: if you showwww your rat face at the courtress i'mmmm breaking it  
bettercallgorgor: There’s nothing in the books that says you can’t have more than one defense legislacerator, moron.   
bettercallgorgor: In fact, it’s usually common practise to have an extra. After all, one can never predict whether His Honorable Tyranny will get peckish in the middle of an especially long trial. *___________  
BadlyOverworked: listen. ok. i need you to listen very carefully to what i’mmmm about to say.  
countryyladyy453: Yy’all fighting in here?  
: shhhhhhhh hhhhhh it’s getting good  
snakeBytes: wait who are you;  
pwnageGenerator: >i let her in  
pwnageGenerator: >also way to manage ur mega secure server lololol NOOB  
snakeBytes: shut up;  
BadlyOverworked: this better not be a fucking joke to mmmmess with mmmme.  
BadlyOverworked: i am putting mmmmy entire life into this case. i don’t have the timmmme or energy to spare for your idiocy.  
bettercallgorgor: Oh, I’m dead fucking serious.  
bettercallgorgor: If you’re going to be breaking the imperial court system right in front of Her Ignorant Cullsucker’s face, well…two ‘pans are better than one, right?  
BadlyOverworked: ...  
BadlyOverworked: let’s talk about this later.  
snakeBytes: are you guys done;  
snakeBytes: because believe it or not;  
snakeBytes: i did not bust my ass making an entire secure chat server able to fit this many people so you two could argue;  
: aw here i thought they were gonna start pitch kissing  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: in a CHAT??  
: hey don’t knock it until you’ve tried it lol  
oh_you_know_;): agreed  
WildWhisp_OfThe_Solarglares: [] oWo? []  
The_Astute_Academicist_64: This heavily secured chat server was created explicitly for the purpose of discussing various future activities which may be construed as treasonous by the current imperial legislacerature. Discussion of other topics, particularly those “Not Safe For Work”, will result in the perpetrators’ being muted. Thank you.  
pwnageGenerator: >WOWWW  
pwnageGenerator: >big stick up the chute here talking big  
pwnageGenerator has been muted by The_Astute_Academicist_64!  
pwnageGenerator has been unmuted by pwnageGenerator!  
pwnageGenerator: >WAIT WHY DO YOU GET ADMIN PRIVILEGES  
The_Astute_Academicist_64: How did you do that??  
snakeBytes: i gave them to him;  
snakeBytes: but clearly there was no point considering we have multiple hackers in here;  
snakeBytes: so everyone = just gonna have to use the honor system and play nice;  
BOLDIR: (agreed.)  
snakeBytes: wait hold on i thought i hadnt added you in yet;  
BOLDIR: (yes.)  
snakeBytes: ok sure;  
snakeBytes: hey @placidPurifier you wanna take over;  
placidPurifier: Sure -_-  
placidPurifier: As some of you know, a while back I had my friend Vikare originally try and arrange a transport for getting our alien friend back to their home planet before anything bad happened to them -_-  
placidPurifier: Obviously there have been complications since then -_-  
placidPurifier: The Empress, for one -_-  
placidPurifier: However, she’s currently several thousand miles away in her palace and, because her flagship is so much faster, it will take about a perigee for additional military forces to arrive -_-  
placidPurifier: Which gives those of us who want and/or need to leave the planet a window of opportunity -_-  
IcarusLives: ~Right-a-rooney! And the shuttle’s all ready to go!~  
placidPurifier: Vikare tells me there’s passenger room for 30, so any trolls who have been convicted as traitors or just really want out of this shithole are good to go too -_-  
placidPurifier: But you need to confirm as soon as possible -_-  
placidPurifier: Boldir has managed to acquire star charts that show the locations of a number of habitable planets the ship can stop at, particularly ones where imperial presence is low -_-  
BOLDIR: (i suggest most of you here take this chance.)  
BOLDIR: (it is risky, but this chance might never come again.)  
SpikedHellion: ▲ yeah, obviously ▼  
lnqB: We knoW.  
oh_you_know_;): i mean it’s not Like i have much choice tbh  
oh_you_know_;): i know for sure i’m in  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: samesies lmao  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: lets grab our lil buddy and scram  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: they in chat?  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: ayooo  
snakeBytes: …  
The_Astute_Academicist_64: …  
BadlyOverworked: …  
placidPurifier: …  
bettercallgorgor: …  
BOLDIR: …  
😜xoxo_rulez_XoD: (:o|  
RoixmrRecords: okay um / that’s kinda ominous / did something happen?  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: yeah whats with the DOTS  
~DuelistPrince~: || Seconded. ||  
hotdiggetydog: (| Thirded! |)  
RoixmrRecords: fourth / -ed?  
: bazillionthed  
pwnageGenerator: >TRILLIONTHED suck it fol  
: bold words for someone in biting range  
pgoezee: they aren’t coming *|  
pgoezee: we discussed it * and they decided to stay here *|

-

ERROR : SERVER != RESPONDING !  
ERROR TYPE : “too many chat inputs”  
REFRESH ? NO || **YES **  
REFRESHING …  
…  
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CONNECTION = RESTORED .  
CHAT FUNCTIONALITY = RESTORED .   
OPEN CHAT ? NO || **YES**

-

user snakeBytes opened chat THE PLAN ??? at 04:18HRS

  
snakeBytes: dont do that again;  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: where ARE THEY  
| |||| |_: y33ah! i hav33nt s3333n th33m in two nights now! wh33n did th33y g33t arr33st33d??  
BOLDIR: (theyre fine.)  
BOLDIR: (in imperial custody, but fine.)

-

ERROR : SERVER != RESPONDING !  
ERROR TYPE : “too many chat inputs”; “too many synchronous chat inputs”; “abuse of capslock”; “assigned admins completely useless”  
REFRESH ? NO || **YES **  
REFRESHING …  
…  
…  
…  
…  
…  
SERVER != NOT RESPONDING !  
REFRESH ? NO || **YES **  
REFRESHING …  
…  
…  
WARNING ! HACKING ATTEMPT = DETECTED !  
STANDBY !  
…  
HACKING ATTEMPT = BLOCKED !  
TRACE ? NO || **YES **  
TRACING …  
…  
…  
…  
…  
…  
SIGNAL TRACED !  
SIGNAL SOURCE : THRASHTHRUST IMPERIAL COMMAND, SECONDAY BASE, SECTOR B1A  
SAVE SOURCE LOCATION ? YES || OBVIOUSLY!! || **YES PLEASE**  
YOU = WELCOME !  
HACK SIGNAL SOURCE SAVED .  
CONNECTION = RESTORED .  
CHAT FUNCTIONALITY = RESTORED.   
OPEN CHAT ? NO || YES || **FINE**

-

user snakeBytes opened chat THE PLAN ??? at 04:29HRS

  
snakeBytes: yall better knock it off and talk it out bc were running out of time;  
snakeBytes: no pressure or anything;  
BadlyOverworked: our friend decided they wwwwant to take this to the top.  
xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx: NANI????????!?????!?!?!  
pwnageGenerator: >AWWWWWW SHIT THEYRE RLY GOING FOR IT  
pwnageGenerator: >always knew they were gonna go apeshit one of these nights  
pwnageGenerator: >fuckin called it  
xxxBladeOfDarknessxxx: This is the first I’m hearing of this! How cou/d that even be possib/e for them?  
| |||| |_: y33ah th33r33s nothing in the schoolf33ds about ali33ns, w33 ALL ch33ck33d  
bettercallgorgor: The schoolfeeds issued for junior legislacerators tend to be somewhat…lacking in certain areas. Which our peculiar little friend discovered when rifling through the older sections of Xigisi’s library. *___________  
BadlyOverworked: there are exploitable loopholes. not a lot, but it gives themmmm a fighting chance in court.  
lnqB: By hoW much, exactly? One percent? TWo?  
lnqB: EVen for them, this is unbelieVably stupid.  
~DuelistPrince~: ||| …I’m inclined to agree. They didn’t even discuss it with Kon or I. |||  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: YEAH  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: they can’t just take risks like that and not TELL US  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: im gonna bust them OUT  
bettercallgorgor: The submitted themselves to custody willingly. If you do this against their will, it’ll only make things worse.  
ciravaSTREAMS4SWEEPS: literally how could things get any worse for them  
BadlyOverworked: oh they mmmmost definitely can  
HOWDOYOUSETAUSERNAMEAAAAGGGGH: i dont care about that i only care about THEM  
pgoezee: you think this is easy for me either * for any of us who knew * you don’t know how badly i wanted to stop them *|  
pgoezee: i didn’t want to let them go * i wanted to keep them safe * but they’d made up their mind * and i had to trust them *|  
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: um excuse me   
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: uh  
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: pgoezee?  
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: can I ask u something?  
pgoezee: what *|  
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: why are they doing thiz??   
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: i mean itz rly brave and cool that they want to challenge the empire but why couldnt they just leave with uz? itz risky but itz a lot lezz risky than what theyre doing!!!   
zZz_BUZZING_zZz: they dont have to!!  
pgoezee: i * they said they * they *  
placidPurifier: I can answer that one -_-  
placidPurifier: They told me, in those words exactly, “it’ll be a good distraction for takeoff.” -_-

-

ERROR : SERVER != RESPONDING !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's just a short thing to get all the different groups on the same (?) page before the trial begins next chapter. Hope you're all doing well!


	43. Of Trials and Errors, Part the First

On the eight day of the twenty-third perigee of sweep nine hundred and thirty-two B. I. D. (Because I Decided), at approximately 11:00AM, an announcement was made to the citizens of Thrashthrust, Alternia. It was broadcast via the loudspeaker system conveniently threaded through the streetlamps, billboards, public chopping blocks, and various other common street amenities, and spake thus: THIS IS AN URGENT ANNOUNCEMENT FOR ALL IMPERIAL SUBJECTS RESIDING WITHIN THE CITY OF THRASHTHRUST.

In response the residents of Thrashthrust collectively grumbled and rolled over in their recuperacoons, because it was 11:00AM in the fucking morning and _some_ people have actual things to do tomorrow night, thanks.

Never to be stymied by the genuine desires of the people regarding their health and wellbeing, the announcement continued.  THE INVESTIGATION REGARDING AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPY HIDING IN THE OUTGLUT DISTRICT HAS BEEN TEMPORARILY CLOSED. 

Then, just a little louder, **MESSAGE REPEAT : THE INVESTIGATION REGARDING AN EXTRATERRESTRIAL SPY HIDING IN THE OUTGLUT DISTRICT HAS BEEN TEMPORARILY CLOSED.**

A few streetlamps unfortunate enough to be within zapping distance of the goldblood apartment complexes exploded. Ah, more victims of gamer rage. Not to worry, however as their destruction simply caused the message to be forwarded directly to the nearest wi-fi-enabled devices, and those were more than plenty.

AS A DIRECT RESULT OF THIS DEVELOPMENT, CURFEWS WILL BE LIFTED FOR THE TIME BEING.

There was a vague squelching sound, like many, many people sitting up in their recuperacoons all at the same time.

HOWEVER, UNTIL ALL SUSPECTED TRAITORS ARE ELIMINATED, THE DISTRICT WILL REMAIN ON HIGH ALERT. SUBJECTS ARE URGED NOT TO OBSTRUCT DRONE PATROLS, AS IT MAY RESULT IN THEIR IMMEDIATE-

What followed was drowned out by collective groan, another resounding _squrlch _like many people flopping back into their recuperacoons, and several more vengeful explosions.

The city returned to its daylife (or lack thereof), save for a few, who had been awaiting the announcement with great anticipation and greater anxiety. Not a one of those individuals slept that day, thoughts of debt and sacrifice heavy in their minds.

* * *

ONE WIPE EARLIER

So the judge-

“his honorable tyranny.” interjects Tyzias, without looking up from the book on the desk before her.

-doesn’t actually talk? He just…eats the accused?

“pretty mmmmuch.” A long sip, and then, matter-of-factly: “it’s wwwwhy so mmmmuch wwwwork goes into scheduling trial blocks. pick the wrong timmmme, and he mmmmight just get immmmpatient and help himmmmself early, wwwwhich mmmmeans the crowwwwd isn’t getting wwwwhat their paid for, etc, etc.” She turns another page of the massive (and very expensive) legal tome, casually dog-earing the previous page as she does so.

Okay, sure, but like-

It’s been a little under a perigee. In that time, Tyzias Entykk, newly appointed Neophyte Legislacerator, has in some ways changed greatly, but in others changed not at all. Her attire is the same, but now her hair is cut short- though, it manages to remain characteristically sloppy and uneven, belying an action motivated by equal parts frustration, impatience, and the sheer laziness to do anything else with it. Her thick-rimmed spectacles are nowhere in sight, replaced with contacts, which means the deep lines scored beneath her eyes are completely unobstructed. The bruising beneath her eyes is a teal so dark it’s practically black, and below them her cheeks are slightly sunken. But when she lifts her face from the book to look at her alien friend (who has, as expected, changed very little), her eyes blaze just as fiercely as they always have, if not brighter. This is a troll who has not only gone through hell but has also emerged wearing a jewel-studded crown with matching crocs.

-if the “judge” is a monster, right, how do they respond to uh, the jury?

“the wwwwhat.”

The jury? The alien repeats, gazing at their friend from the cozy armchair in Galekh Xigisi’s personal bookhive. They are upside-down, legs up against the back of the chair, hands folded over their chest. It’s kind of like a council of fellow peers, they continue. They help decide the verdict, but the judge decides how to act on it. I think.

They are met with a quirked eyebrow and a brief rustle as Tyzias carefully marks her place in the book before shutting it. “howwww exactly do trials wwwwork on _your_ planet?”

The alien’s face squinches up. Well, I’ve _never_ been to one per se, they admit. But I’ve seen it how it works in some tv shows and video games. So there’s two attorneys, right, one for defense and one for prosecution, and they _basically_ do what legislacerators do, I think? The defense one defends the convicted person, the prosecuting one tries to…prosecute them, uh, and then they yell at each other and they yell at other people called witnesses and yell at each other some more, and sometimes they cry and kiss and fall in love…

They trail off as their friend’s second eyebrow joins the first, accompanied by a small, incredulous chuckle. Their face flushes a red that looks garish on their monochrome face, and they stutter a little when they next speak.

H-hey, not _all_ of us are smart enough to go into law, you know!

“no, but _i’mmmm_ not the one wwwwalking into a detecquisitor’s office next wwwwipe and convincing themmmm not to cull mmmme on the spot.” Picking up the heavy legal tome effortlessly, the tealblood woman trudges over to the armchair next to her friend’s and plops down unceremoniously with a low groan. Seeing the pout on their friend’s face, she chuckles once more before her expression sobers.

“the first thing you need to understand is that trials of any kind aren’t normmmmal. mmmmost of the timmmme, the dispensing of justice-“ her voice curls scornfully around the word- “is left within the purviewwwww of the drones.”

…Yeah. Remarks the alien, slowly pulling their legs down and shifting in their seat so that they’re draped sideways across it facing Tyzias. But where does the line get drawn between drone justice and…whatever you guys do? The severity of the crime? The amount of people involved?

“no.” A mocking grin forces itself onto the legislacerator’s face, though it appears more directed at herself than her companion. “it’s a lot simmmmpler than that, actually. it's _caste_.”

Oh! …Oh.

“wwwwithout going into too mmmmuch detail, pretty mmmmuch every direct violation of immmmperial lawwww is first and foremmmmost viewwwwed through the lens of the offenders’ castes. this goes for troll officials as wwwwell as drones.” Tyzias explains, voice taut. “but wwwwith midbloods to highbloods, things shift slightly, because mmmmemmmmbers of _these_ castes have access to legal actions. but even then, there’s a lot of nuance. say there’s…hmmmm…”

Someone plagiarized some art? And they’re both highbloods, but the plagiarist is in a slightly lower caste?

“right. nowwww, based on current legislacerature, the offended highblood wwwwould be wwwwell wwwwithin their rights to settle the issue in single commmmbat. but say they wwwweren’t feeling so confident in that, wwwwell, that’s wwwwhere legislacerators commmme in. the legislacerator assists themmmm in filing the lawwwwsuit and proceeding to a local sector court for trial.”

And both sides get legislacerators?

“_if_ the other side can afford it. but it’s not technically required.”

Okay, so what happens in the actual courtroom? Courtblock, I mean.

“it can be a little commmmplicated, due to their being a wwwwide variety of moves a legislacerator can make in court, but the mmmmost immmmportant thing is that everything is based around the whimmmms of the spectators. that’s been true for centuries. a legislacerator’s job, basically, is to immmmpress and wwwwowwww themmmm until they’re all on their client’s side, wwwwho in this case wwwwould be the one wwwwhose art wwwwas stolen.”

So, the spectators are basically the jury? And the legislacerators are trying to hype them up to get them to vote on the most favorable verdict?

“…no, i wwwwas speaking literally.” A huge gulp from a familiar mug- there’s one thing that hasn’t changed- and she continues, “traditional courtblocks are set up wwwwith each side facing each other and stands for the spectators behind them. spectators can change wwwwhich side of the room they’re sitting on freely throughout the trial. the mmmmmore people you have sitting in the stands behind you wwwwhen the timmmmmer goes off, the better chance you have of wwwwinning.”

The alien’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens, then closes again.

But wait…what about the…there’s no…

“trials pretty mmmmuch just serve as entertainmmmment for petty highbloods,” Tyzias shrugs, “and legislacerators are the entertainers. that’s howwww it’s alwwwways been.”

That sounds more like a high school football game than a legal proceeding.

“i don’t knowwww wwwwhat any of those wwwwords mmmmean.”

That’s fine. So, in this case, say the painter doesn’t have a legislacerator, they just have to try and convince the crowd by themselves? Couldn’t they also win like that? I bet I could bs some fake laws.

“they could _try_. but each side has a verification drone wwwwhose job is to confirmmmm whether the lawwwws cited really exist. so if it confirmmmms that wwwwhat the painter said is false, that only hurts their odds of persuading the audience.”

And if they lose, they get…eaten?

“not in the sector courts. those just have a drone stationed to elimmmminate the loser immmmediately, or in sommmme rare cases put themmmm in confinemmmment indefinitely.” She runs a hand through her short mess of hair absently, only succeeding in ruffling it even more. “but _you’re_ not going to sector court. they’ll probably take you dowwwwn to the immmmperial court in the undersea capital, where his honorable tyranny resides.”

At the sound of the name, a squeak is heard from behind the nearest bookshelf. The alien and the troll exchange a quick look. Then, with a slight nod, Tyzias stands, gesturing for them to continue talking.

Right, yeah, His Honorable Tyranny, the big ‘ol monster dude. Right. You said there are a bunch of “moves” you can use in court- is “put the big monster to sleep one of them”? Because I think I’d have a better shot if I-

They’re cut off when Tyzias, who has been slowly approaching the source of the earlier noise, suddenly lunges forward and disappears around the corner of the bookshelf. There’s an indignant squeal of “L33T GO OF M33!”, and then the legislacerator reappears with a squirming Tirona under her arm.

Oh, hi, Tirona! Did you need anything?

The smaller troll ceases her attempts at tickling her captor’s sides—thus far, to no avail— and glares at the alien. “w33 w33r33 _suppos33d_ to bake cooki33s today.” Her eyes narrow, “and h33r33 you ar33, talking about my idol h.h.t. with my gr33at33st 33n33my!”

“careful nowwww.” drones Tyzias, mercilessly ruffling the smaller teal’s hair, “wwwwouldn’t wwwwant to enrage your “greatest enemmmmmy” wwwwhen you’ve been captured, wwwwould you?”

“stoooop!” The smaller troll flails in her captor’s grasp. A heel clips Tyzias in the spine and she goes down like a sack of cement, albeit somewhat exaggeratedly. “oh noooo.” She says in monotone, but the half-hidden smirk on her face betrays that she’s having fun.

Tirona wiggles out from under her arm and immediately goes to sit on her back, shrieking “that’s what you G33T!” with absolute glee. Tyzias waves an arm weakly at the alien, whose sides are currently busted from how hard they’re laughing. “save mmmmeeee. she's too strong…” In response, the alien actually falls off the chair, overcome with mirth.

Later, on a submarine bound for the undersea capital, their sides bruised from the grip of their drone escort’s claws, the alien later known as “MSPA Reader” will find themselves recalling the moment fondly, even smiling a little when the remember the look on Galekh’s face when he’d seen the state of his bookhive. The small giggle that escapes them will be quickly cut off by the tightening of the drone’s grip. However, that is still yet to come. Right now, at this moment in time, they are truly, blissfully happy.

* * *

BACK TO PRESENT DAY

The night is not always darkest before the dawn, speaking both metaphorically and literally. On this morning, however, it was both. This was no mean feat, considering the planet possessed not one but _two_ luminescent neon moons, but the night managed.

We look upon a beach. Soft white grains stir softly beneath a pitch-dark sky, in which are cradled the moons, caught in a rare state wherein both are narrowed to the slimmest of crescents, twin cracks standing out against the firmament. The waves are slow tonight, lazily curling around the calves of the lone figure who stands in the surf.

This figure does not believe in omens. Omens are a load of stinking carp not even worth gutting. Anyone foolish enough to trust them is in need of serious kelp.

The mountainous figure approaching her, however, possesses an entirely different stance on the matter, and notes the omen before he even steps on the sand, because a motherfucker hasn’t gotten to live _this_ long without learning to keep a ganderbulb out for Signs.

The second figure walks across the beach in few steps and stops right on the edge of the surf. **“So, you actually came back, hag.”**

She turns her head just enough that he can see the meager light glint off her serrated teeth. **“you miss me, ma-carp-a?”** She laughs. It’s a horrific noise. What few stars remain in the sky seem to shiver.

In response the other throws back his head and laughs heartily, the sound booming across the sands and shaking the surrounding cliffs. **“FUCK no.”**

**“good. id think you were outta your clam mind ot)(erwise. not that that aint true already, but it could )(appen.”** She turns fully and walks towards him at a leisurely pace, drawing her culling fork as she does so, allowing the tips to skate lightly across the waves at her feet.

**“w)(attayou say we )(ave a little match?” **The Empress smiles.** “nofin serious. just a little fun between old kismets. w)(ens the last time you got to fig)(t for reel?”**

The purpleblood is sorely tempted. He can feel the call to battle singing in his veins, alongside that ages-old instinct that always awakens in the face of a ruler, the instinct to _obey_. For a moment, a clawed hand twitches towards the spiked mace on his belt, causing the fishy monarch’s eyes to narrow. However, a prickling against his scalp reminds him he has other duties to complete before the sun rises. With well-practised effort he pushes the screaming desire for blood to the back of his thinkpan.

**“Save that shit for after the trial, Peixes. I got other fucking business to attend to.”**

If the Empress sees something shifting in his mane of hair, she doesn’t comment on it. She has an heir already and another on the way, after all; about time her so-called peers managed the same.

She positions the tip of the trident beneath the Grand Highblood’s chin, tilting it up just slightly, **“you betta not back out, clown.”**

In response, the purpleblood grins, opens his mouth, and snaps off the tip of the trident with his teeth. This promptly earns him a sharp-toed boot in the abdomen. He digs his heels in the sand to avoid being sent flying, but still skids back a dozen meters, laughing all the while.

**“fuckin assclown.”** The Empress seethes. She’s having fun. **“soon as i get t)(is alien bullcarp done wit)(, you betta watc)( out.”**

The clown looks as though he’s about to make another quip, when his expression takes on an uncharacteristic expression of soberness. He’s remembered something. The moment passes quickly, however, before he quickly schools his expression into its usual menacing leer.

**“How’s 'Tuna?” **

The Empress is not fooled for even one moment by the controlled flatness of his voice. She _could_ always feign ignorance, but really, she isn’t _that_ nice.

“**still gettin ya pity on for a bunc)( a wires?”** she sneers. **“cute. tunas the same- a lil creaky, but t)(ats w)(at ya get for forcin a pissblood ta live bass )(is lifespan.”**

What few stars remained in the sky seem to have vanished from fright at the two monsters on the sand, or from the oncoming dawn, or both.

**“tell ya w)(at- ya pop down to ma place tomorrow night, keep me company durin t)(is farce, and maybe ill letc)(a swing by ta see )(im. )(ows t)(at sound?”**

A pause.

**“…Fine. Motherfucker.”**

* * *

ONE NIGHT EARLIER

There’s not very much for Tyzias to pack up, at the end of it all. Two sets of clean clothes, spare contact lenses and lens fluid, and, of course, several pounds of case notes and evidence in the form of various notebooks, binders, and law tomes too wholly valuable to bother annotating. She manages to cram it all into two bags, somehow. Her arms shake a little when she lifts them, and she can’t help but curse at her weakness. Several wipes of poor eating habits- piled on top of several _sweeps_ of slightly-less-worse habits- tends to compound, she knows. The evidence is clear enough whenever she sees the reflection of her face in mirrors, i.e. in the darkened screen of her husktop after it’s run out of battery.

She doesn’t mind it, though. Tyzias has always understood that change, real change, is costly, and it may demand more of her yet. She doesn’t mind. Her other half, on the other hand…

No. No thoughts like that, not now. No room for indecisiveness and worry and fear and doubt. Tomorrow night she is going to look the many sneering faces of oppression in their eyes and beat them at their own game. No, more, _more_ than that, she is going to overturn the fucking board and leave them scrambling for the useless, broken pieces of the monster they raised and grew and fed on the blood of millions. More importantly still, she is going to look her friend in the eye when it’s all over, knowing that no one else will ever be able to hurt them, never again.

She locks the door of her office as she leaves, out of habit, and walks down the hall, quickly, so as not to look at any of the plaques on the other offices as she goes. No time for nostalgia, especially for such a bittersweet past. Although…there were some good times, weren’t there? Amidst deadlines, distrust, barely-dodged shuriken, and terrible fast food shared at 2:00PM, there were…moments. Perhaps there will time for that in the future, if she wins. No, _when they win._

It’s a chill night, because of course it is. She walks quickly, shivering a little in her threadbare hoodie, hauling the two suitcases along. It’s the cusp of curfew, and so the streets are bare, but for the occasional figure spotted scuttling into a doorway. Tyzias finds herself ducking into an alley to avoid a passing drone squadron more than once. It’s not yet time, but she’d rather not take the risk of being stopped and questioned. Eventually she makes her way to the edge of town, where the ugliest and most heavily-modded scuttlebuggy in the world sits waiting.

Through the one open window she can see a few of the others already waiting: the hacker, the assassin, and- ah. Tagora. Looks like she’ll have to endure some bragging after all. As she hobbles closer, swinging her bags, the other tealblood spots her from the passenger-side window and grins- only for it to quickly slip off his face, to be replaced with a stricken look. His eyes are fixed on a point behind her.

Damn. Drones? And they picked the perfect time for it, too, with her weapon packed away. Maybe she can throw the suitcase not holding her notes, disorient it long enough to get in the van and get out. Any of the others not in the van already would just have to find another way out of the city.

Heart pounding, Tyzias whirls around, already hefting one bag to her shoulder.

Standing a few feet behind her, mouth set in a tight, painful line, is Stelsa Seyzat.

And Tyzias freezes.

The sudden appearance of her ex-matesprit induces such a shock to her that the bags slip from her hands and crash to the street, one after the other. Neither woman pays them any mind, so transfixed and frozen they are by the sight of each other.

Stelsa looks…tired, Tyzias notes. The lines around her eyes are definitely more pronounced, her hair is a little longer and tied up into a messy bun. Despite all that it’s still _her_, wonderful and beautiful and the way she’s looking at Tyzias makes her want to rush forward and throw her arms around her and never let go.

She can’t move.

It’s Stelsa who moves first. Without taking her eyes off Tyzias’ face she steps forward, cautiously, then again, then again, until the two are barely a foot apart. Tyzias can’t breathe.

Stelsa reaches into her coat and pulls out a package. The bundle is roughly square, albeit somewhat bumpy in places, and wrapped tightly and securely in paper. (Every line of tape is pristine, of course. It’s Stelsa.) Firmly, but not roughly, she pushes it into Tyzias’ slack hands, which close automatically around it.

Stelsa looks her in the eyes. She inhales like she’s about to say something, but shakes her head and jerks her head away. Without a word, she turns and quickly walks away.

With some effort, Tyzias manages to unstick her throat. “stelsa,” she croaks, but Stelsa is already gone, her powerful legs carrying her well out of earshot. Tyzias is left standing in the street, helplessly watching the back of that bright pink coat as it grows farther and farther away before disappearing around a corner and out of sight.

Swallowing hard, she looks down at the paper-wrapped package in her hands. There are two words on it, written in familiar teal Scarpie: _Come home._ With shaking hands Tyzias rips open the paper and finds the jacket front of what looks to be a modified version of a classical legislacerator’s uniform, only black with crimson accents instead of teal. High-quality, too. From the feel and size of the package, there’s an entire outfit in there, complete with gloves and boots.

This must have cost a _fortune_. Did Stelsa buy it for her because she knew it’d help win over the crowd during the trial? Tyzias had fully intended to attend it in socks, sandals, and pyjamas, because tradition could honestly go screw itself as far as she was concerned, but _this_ was just plain badass and she was going to wear the hell out of it. Not to mention it’d make a good impression on the spectators, which was all that really mattered in this. And Stelsa would think of that, of _course_ she would, she’s always so thoughtful about things like that…

In spite of everything that happened between them, in spite of Tyzias pushing her matesprit away for some self-destructive mission, Stelsa cares. Stelsa cares about seeing their friend get home safe, Stelsa cares about having them win the right to live despite the Empress and the system and the Empire itself, and _Stelsa cares about Tyzias._

_Idiot,_ Tyzias thinks. She’s not quite sure who it’s addressed to.

“Show me. *___________” are Tagora’s first words to her when she climbs in the back of the scuttlebuggy van. Tyzias rolls her ganderbulbs and passes the uniform to Tagora, who makes an approving noise. “Good, it looks like we’ll match. If we’re going out tomorrow, then mark my words, Entykk, we’re going out in style.”

“Or not at all, preferably.1” mutters someone from further back in the van. Tagora throws an empty latte cup at him.

(1. Overdramatic dork.)

“is that everyone *|” growls the assassin, who has both hands clenched very tightly on the steering wheel. “if we don’t leave now * we won’t reach the train station in time *|”

Various noises of affirmation sound from various parts of the vehicle. Polypa then proceeds to hit the accelerator at full force. Later, when the party stands in the last train car bound for the undersea capital, winded and bruised in various places, she will make a point of not apologizing for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU'RE ALL DOING OKAY!! I'M VERY TIRED BUT GOOD


	44. Of Trials and Errors, Part the Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! sorry this one's a little late, things have been getting busier lately. enjoy some fun stalling shenanigans.

* * *

[note from cop:er: the or:g:nal record conta:ned :n :t some sect:ons that were unprofess:onal and/or unreadable. these have been redacted from the off:c:al copy made for future reference.]

* * *

Imperial court case no.  618219201251919 

Date  09D.23P.932S. B. I. D. 

Trial designation  Alternia VS. The Alien Spy (Species unknown) 

OFFiCiAL RECORD OF APPRENTiCE COURT STENOGRAFTER LUUMiS, TO SERVE AS A SUPPLEMENTAL TO THAT OF SENiOR COURT STENOGRAFTER DiBALA, WHO iS A VERY CRUEL AND VERY INVALID SON OF A [redacted] WHO WiLL NOT BUY ANOTHER PROPER STENOGRAFT MACHiNE SO i AM REDUCED TO JUST TAKiNG NOTES ON PAPER LIKE i’M A SUCKLING GRUB AND NOT THE TRAiNED PROFESSiONAL i AM, AND iF HE’S READiNG THiS THEN [add:t:onal redact:ons]

NOTE: ALL TiMESTAMPS WERE DOUBLE-CHECKED AND CORROBORATED WITH BOTH SENiOR COURT STENOGRAFTER DiBALA AND APPRENTiCE COURT STENOGRAFTER GOOMBY, SO YES, THAT BREAK REALLY DiD LAST ELEVEN HOURS. WE WERE THERE. WE CHECKED. WE KNOW.

RECORD BEGiNS:

** 04:00 ** iMPERiAL SUBJECTS RANDOMLY SELECTED FOR SPECTATOR DUTY BEGiN ENTRY iNTO THE COURTRESS. THE OTHER TWO STENOGRAFTERS AND MYSELF ENTERED ALSO, AS WELL AS SEVERAL OTHER COURT OFFiCiALS. ALL MANDATORY SPECTATORS SAT ON THE ALTERNiA SiDE OF THE COURTBLOCK. THE EMPRESS’ THRONE WAS PLACED THERE ALSO, THOUGH SHE HAS NOT ARRiVED.

**04:10 **ALL COURT EQUiPMENT AND PROPS HAVE BEEN TESTED, EXCEPT FOR THE HORN OF VERiSiMiLiTUDE, WHiCH HAS NOT BEEN CLEANED SiNCE THE LAST TRiAL. THE KEEPERS HAVE GONE TO AWAKEN HiS HONORABLE TYRANNY WHERE HE SLEEPS iN THE PiT ViSiBLE BENEATH THE COURTBLOCK FLOOR.

**04:11 ** HiS HONORABLE TYRANNY iS AWAKE.****

**04:12 **BOTH KEEPERS HAVE PERiSHED.

**04:13 **THE LEGiSLACERATiVE TEAM iN DEFENSE OF THE ALiEN ARRiVE. THEIR DESiGNATiONS:

  * (HEAD) NLG. TYZiAS ENTYKK – CASTERANK TEAL – CASES WON: 11
  * NLG. TAGORA GORJEK – CASTERANK TEAL – CASES WON: 19

NOTE: BOTH NEOPHYTES HAVE WON ONLY SUB-SECTOR-LEVEL CASES THUS FAR.

NOTE: BOTH NEOPHYTES WERE iNFORMALLY LABELED AS SUSPECTS iN THE iNVESTiGATiON PRiOR TO THE TRiAL.

**04:14 **3004 OF THE 3500 DESiGNATED SPECTATORS NOW IN THE COURTBLOCK. TRiAL STATiSTiCS STATE THAT ALL HAVE CHOSEN THE ALTERNiA SiDE. UNDERSTANDABLE.

NOTE: NEiTHER NEOPHYTE iN DEFENSE OF THE ALiEN, NOT YET DELiVERED, APPEAR FAZED.

**04:21 **3418 OF THE SPECTATORS SEATED.

**04:25 **THE iMPERiAL LEGiSLACERATOR TEAM SETS UP THEiR SECTiON. THEiR DESiGNATiONS:

  * (HEAD) LG. SERYSS ERMINE - CASTERANK INDIGO - CASES WON: 49
  * LG. KADIJA MATERE – CASTERANK INDIGO – CASES WON: 35
  * NLG. ZENETE RETRIA – CASTERANK CERULEAN – CASES WON: 33
  * NLG. PSEUUD OUNYYM – CASTERANK CERULEAN – CASES WON: UNKNOWN (FAiLED TO RECOVER FROM DATABASE; WiLL RE-ATTEMPT LATER)
  * NLG. ICHIGO SASUKE – CASTERANK TEAL – CASES WON: 9001 (?)

BOTH VERiFiER DRONES NOW DEPLOYED.

**04:30 **ALL SPECTATORS NOW SEATED. STARTiNG SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3499

OBS: THE ONLY SPECTATOR ON THE ALiEN SiDE APPEARS TO BE A CERULEAN, CASUALLY DRESSED, TYPiNG ON A PALMHUSK. DiD THEY WALK iNTO THE WRONG COURTBLOCK? HOW DiD THEY GET A PERSONAL DEVICE PAST SECURiTY? THEY DON’T LOOK VERY CONCERNED. DO THEY EVEN KNOW WHAT’S GOiNG ON? DiBALA, THE [redacted], iS NOW TELLiNG ME TO STOP MUTTERiNG AND GET READY TO RECORD THE TRiAL PLAYS, TO WHiCH i SAY HE SHOULD [add:t:onal redact:ons] OH WAiT THEY’RE SAYiNG SOMETHiNG NOW

**04:35 **THE HiGHBLOOD COUNCiL iS NOW ENTERING THE COURTBLOCK AND ARE TAKiNG THEiR SEATS. OR SOMETHiNG. THERE APPEARS TO BE AN iSSUE.

**04:36 **iT WOULD APPEAR THEY ARE iRRiTATED AT NOT GETTING SPECiAL CHAiRS LiKE THE EMPRESS’ (STiLL EMPTY). THEY’RE THREATENiNG THE COURTBLOCK STAFF. A DRONE iS SLOWLY APPROACHING TO iNTERVENE.

OBS: NOT THAT i DON’T RESPECT THEM BUT REALLY? i’M SiTTiNG ON MY GASTRiC EVACUTATiON PiLLOW ON THE FLOOR TAKiNG NOTES AND YOU DON’T SEE ME COMPLAiNiNG, PLUS i HAVE ACTUAL WORK TO DO BESiDES LOOKiNG BORED AND/OR CONDESCENDiNG. NO GOOMBY THiS iS NOT TREASON NOW STOP LOOKiNG OVER MY SHOULDER NUB WHiLE i'M WRiTiNG

**04:48 **THE HiGHBLOOD COUNCiL iS NOW SEATED.

NOTE: DURiNG THE iNTERVAL, THE ALTERNiA LEGiSLACERATOR WENT OVER A 280-PAGE STRATEGY GUiDE. THE ALiEN TEAM APPEAR TO BE PLAYiNG A CARD GAME.

**04:50 **THE ALiEN iS ESCORTED iN BY TWO CERULEAN DETECQUiSiTORS, AND iS PLACED, AS iS CUSTOMARY, iN THE LARGE CENTER CAGE WHOSE FLOOR IS DiRECTLY OVER HiS HONORABLE TYRANNY’S PIT.

NOTE: THE ALiEN iS VERY SMALL AND SEEMS TO POSSESS NO NATURAL WEAPONRY. MANY OF THE SPECTATORS APPEAR CONFUSED. HOWEVER- NONE SWiTCH SiDES.

NOTE 2: THE OFFiCERS ESCORTiNG THEM, ViTAAL AND SCLEPI, APPEAR iRRiTATED AND UNCOMFORTABLE RESPECTiVELY. THEY AND THE REST OF THEiR TEAM WiLL BE ON STANDBY FOR REFERENCE FOR THE DURATiON.

OBS: THE ALiEN DOES NOT SEEM REPENTANT NOR WORRiED, THOUGH iT iS HARD TO TELL, BECAUSE i HAVE THE WORST [redacted] SEAT iN THE BLOCK.

**05:00 **THE TRiAL COMMENCES. THE COURTBLOCK DOORS ARE SHUT AND SEALED.

NOTE: THE EMPRESS HAS NOT ARRiVED. i HAVE BEEN INFORMED THAT THiS iS FiNE.

**05:01 ** PER TRADiTiON, THE SiDE WiTH FEWER POiNTS MAKES THE FIRST MOVE. NLH. ENTYKK WAiVES THE RiGHT TO AN OPENiNG SPEECH AND iNVOKES THE SPEECH ACTiON Player Pass TO GiVE iT TO NLG. GORJEK.

OBS: USiNG UP ACTiON CARDS THiS EARLY iN THE TRiAL? CLASSiC NEOPHYTE MOVE. THEY WON’T LAST VERY LONG AT THiS RATE!

SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3504

**05:02 ** NLG. GORJEK USES THE COMMON-CLASS iTEM Badge Of Elucidation TO DOUBLE THE OPENiNG SPEECH TiME FROM THiRTY MiNUTES TO AN HOUR.

SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3504

**06:02 **NLG. GORJEK SPEAKS FOR EXACTLY SiXTY MiNUTES ABOUT THE FUTURE OF SKiNCARE.

NOTE: THiS iS NOT A JOKE. THiS iS NOT A [redacted] JOKE.

NOTE 2: THERE iS NO FORMAL RULE WHiCH STATES THAT THE OPENiNG SPEECH MUST BE ABOUT THE TRiAL ITSELF.

OBS: iT iS UNKNOWN WHAT KiND OF STRATEGY THiS iS. WAS iT MEANT TO WiN OVER THE MORE SKiNCARE-CONSCiOUS SPECTATORS? iF SO, iT WAS NOT SUCESSFUL.

SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3504

**06:04 ** TURN SWITCHES AUTOMATiCALLY TO THE ALTERNiA SiDE. LG. ERMiNE MAKES USE OF ONE OF THEiR HiGH-TiER Items- ONLY ATTAiNED AFTER 30 CONSECUTiVE WiNS- AND EVOKES THE COURTBLOCK EFFECT Raked Over The Coals, WHiCH CAUSES THE FLOOR BENEATH THE OPPOSiNG TEAM TO BECOME HEATED. A DARiNG FiRST MOVE!

OBS: THiS HAS LiTTLE EFFECT. THE FORMAL LEGiSLACERATiVE GEAR EQUiPPED BY THE ALiEN SiDE APPEARS TO BE PROTECTiNG THEiR STRUTPODS. HOW TWO NEOPHYTES GOT THEiR PRONGS ON THOSE IS UNKNOWN. HOWEVER, SOME OF THE AUDiENCE LOOK iMPRESSED. THIS iS NOT ENOUGH TO SWAY THEM, THOUGH.

SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3504

**06:06 ** THE ALTERNiA SiDE TAKES A SECOND TURN, AS PER THE RULES OF ALL COURTBLOCK EFFECTS. LG. MATERE ACTiVATES ONE OF HER Address The Block SPEECH ACTiON CARDS.

**06:48 **LG. MATERE COMPLETES COMPREHENSiVE EXPLANATiON OF EACH OF THE CHARGES BEING LEVELED AGAiNST THE ALiEN. TOTAL CHARGES SUMMATED AS FOLLOWS:

  * BEiNG AN EXTRATERRESTRiAL LiFEFORM
  * UNLAWFUL DWELLiNG ON ALTERNiAN SOiL
  * UNLAWFUL TAKEOFF AND/OR LANDiNG ON ALTERNiAN SOiL
  * DESTRUCTiON OF iMPERiAL PROPERTY
  * DESTRUCTiON OF iMPERiAL SATELLiTE MOON
  * POSSESSiNG BLOOD NOT OFFiCiALLY RECOGNiZED BY THE HEMOSPECTRUM
  * iNCiTiNG TREASONOUS iNTENT
  * iNCiTiNG TREASONOUS ACTiON
  * iNCiTiNG TREASON ViA HUMOROUS SOCiAL MEDiA CONTENT
  * DRiViNG WiTHOUT A LiCENSE
  * iNTERFERENCE WiTH PUBLiC EVENT(S)
  * iNAPPROPRiATE QUADRANT SOLiCiTATiON(S)
  * POSSiBLE iNTENT TO POLLUTE iNCESTUOUS SLURRY
  * iNDiRECT iNTERFERENCE WiTH OFFiCiAL iMPERiAL AFFAiRS
  * DiRECT iNTERFERENCE WiTH OFFiCiAL iMPERiAL AFFAiRS
  * PUBLiC iNDECENCY (RE: LACK OF PANTS)

THESE 16 CRiMES ARE PENDiNG VERiFiCATiON BY THE VERiFiCATiON DRONE, WHiCH iS CONNECTED TO BOTH THE LEGiSLACERATiVE DATABASE AND THE CRiMiNAL EViDENCE DATABASE.

**07:01 ** THE VERiFiCATiON DRONE CONFiRMS VALiDiTY OF TWO (2) CHARGES BASED ON PREViOUSLY COLLECTED EViDENCE:

  * BEiNG AN EXTRATERRESTRiAL LiFEFORM
  * DRiViNG WiTHOUT A LiCENSE

**07:02 ** LG. ERMiNE CALLS A Time-Out. BECAUSE THEiR SiDE iS CURRENTLY IN THE LEAD, THE MOTiON iS LEGAL.

COURT OFFiCiALS ARE NOW ATTEMPTiNG TO RESET THE VERiFiCATiON DRONE.

**07:14 **THE DETECQUiSiTiON TEAM iS NOW CHECKiNG FOR ANY ERRORS ACCESSiNG THE CRiMiNAL EViDENCE DATABASE.

**07:39 **iT WOULD SEEM THE CRiMiNAL EViDENCE DATABASE HAS BEEN HACKED.

**08:09 **iT WOULD SEEM THE CRiMiNAL EViDENCE DATABASE HAS BEEN HACKED AND CAN NO LONGER BE ACCESSED.

**08:11 ** AS PER COURTBLOCK RULES, THE TRiAL CONTiNUES. ALL CHECKS ON THE VALiDiTY OF STATEMENTS WILL NOW HAVE TO BE FOUND USiNG PHYSiCAL DOCUMENTATiON. FURTHERMORE, ALL EViDENCE WiLL NEED TO BE PRESENTED TO THE COURT FiRSTHAND.

Time-Out  DURATiON HAS ELAPSED.

**08:12 ** BECAUSE THE ALTERNiA TEAM WENT OVERTiME ON THE TiME-OUT, THE ALiEN TEAM WiLL RECEiVE TWO EXTRA TURNS.

SCOREBOARD: 1 : 3504

**08:15 ** NLG. ENTYKK USES THE Crossfire Crossexamination TESTIMONY ACTION CARD, A MOVE WHiCH ALLOWS ANY PREViOUSLY USED WiTNESSES TO BE RETURNED TO THE STAGE FOR A TEN-MiNUTE LiGHTNiNG ROUND. HOWEVER, BECAUSE NO WiTNESSES HAVE BEEN USED, THiS ONLY WASTES TEN MiNUTES.

OBS: THE ALiEN TEAM’S LEGISLACERATORS APPEAR TO BE USiNG THiS TiME TO WRAP UP THEiR CARD GAME.

OBS 2: THE ALiEN APPEARS TO BE TRYiNG TO ENGAGE HiS HONORABLE TYRANNY IN CASUAL CONVERSATiON. i WAS ONLY ABLE TO CATCH A SNiPPET:

A: Hey, so, what’s going on with you?

HHT: [A BONE-RATTLiNG GROWL THAT ViBRATES THROUGH THE COURTBLOCK.]

A: [iNAUDiBLE] -hungry too? Haha, yeah, same, i haven’t eaten in like, a day or two.

**08:25 **NLG. ENTYKK USES SECOND TURN TO CALL FOR A BREAK. THE ALTERNiA SiDE CONCEDE.

ENTYKK THEN PAiRS THE ACTiON WiTH THE SPECiAL-CLASS ACTION Making Up For Lost Time, UNLOCKABLE ONLY BY LEGiSLACERATORS WHO COMPLETE THEiR TRAiNiNG AT LEAST TWO SWEEPS EARLY, AND WHiCH ALLOWS THEM TO EXTEND THE USUAL BREAK UP TO TEN ADDiTiONAL HOURS.

ENTYKK CHOOSES TEN HOURS.

**12:30 **iT’S BEEN FOUR HOURS. NOTHiNG THAT WAS BROKEN BEFORE HAS BEEN FiXED. ALiEN IS STiLL TRYiNG TO TALK TO H.H.T. AND MAKiNG THE PLACE SHAKE EVERY TiME I DOZE OFF, NONE OF THE COURT STAFF ARE ALLOWED TO LEAVE SO i CAN’T LEAVE TO GET ANYTHiNG. STOP LOOKiNG OVER MY SHOULDER GOOMBY I SWEAR TO [further redact:ons]

ALTERNiAN SiDE iS PLANNiNG…SOMETHiNG. CAN’T SEE MUCH. ALiEN SiDE ALSO LOOK MUCH BUSiER. COULD THEY HAVE AN ACTUAL PLAN BESiDES STALLiNG FOR TiME? iF THAT iS REALLY WHAT THEY’RE DOiNG. THEY’VE GOT A LOT OF PAPERS OUT AND ARE WRiTiNG PLENTY MORE. THE OTHER SiDE iS SCRAMBLiNG FOR REFERENCES WiTHOUT A FUNCTiONiNG VERiFiCATiON DRONE TO CHECK ANYTHiNG.

SCOREBOARD REMAiNS UNCHANGED DURiNG THE BREAK.

**16:12 **NO CHANGE. THE BREAK STiLL HOLDS. LG. ERMINE ViSiBLY PiSSED-OFF.

**17:40 **ALTERNiA TEAM COMPLETELY iNACTiVE. ALiEN TEAM STiLL HARD AT WORK ASSEMBLiNG PAPERS. GETTiNG SLEEPY.

**17:58 **[a mass of smeared :nk, completely un:ntell:g:ble]

**19:25 **TRiAL RESUMES. BECAUSE iT WAS STiLL THEiR TURN WHEN THE BREAK BEGAN, THE ALiEN TEAM RESUMES THEiR TURN BY DEFAULT.

**19:45 ** LG. GORJEK EXPENDS ONE Address The Block SPEECH ACTiON AND COMBiNES iT WiTH A Death By Citation CARD TO ALLOW EXTRA TiME FOR REFERENCES.

THE SPEECH HAS NOTHiNG TO DO WiTH THE TRiAL EiTHER. WAS NOT ABLE TO RECORD iT. WAS VERY TiRED.

**19:57 **SCOREBOARD UNCHANGED

**20:23 **SCOREBOARD UNCHANGED

**21:35 **SCOREBOATF UNCHANGED

**21:46 **SCOREBAORD UNCAHEGDE

**22:02 ** SOCREHABORF UCNAHGED

**22:11 ** EMPRESS ARRiVES AT THE COURTROOM. ALONG WiTH OH [long str:ng of un:ntell:g:ble profan:ty] iS THAT THE GRAND [redacted] HiGHBL

* * *

[note from cop:er: th:s seems to conclude stenografter luum:s’ notes from day 1 of the tr:al, though : have been :nformed that this was not where :t ended. for more :nformat:on perta:n:ng to day 1 of th:s tr:al, Alternia VS. The Alien Spy (Species unknown)_,_ please see f:le MXA-0600, f:l:ng cab:net no. 22 :n arch:ve 4.]

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Alternian trials should work like a really bad team sport with gimmicky, RPG-esque court maneuvers you can exploit the hell out of to waste time. Then again, I think a LOT of things should work like that…
> 
> The next chapter won’t be in this same format, don’t worry. I just thought this would be funny. 
> 
> In case you’re wondering why MSPAR’s crime list doesn’t include those from friendsim, I’m taking into account their records being wiped clean during Tirona’s route. The list SHOULD be longer!


	45. Of Trials and Errors, Part the Third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The courtroom is essentially a modernized + modified version of that seen in the trial of Mindfang during the webcomic proper. You can see it here: https://www.homestuck.com/story/3747 I’d recommend you take a peek, just to better imagine the scene. I’m REAL bad at describing indoor settings.
> 
> This chapter has some of the fantrolls in it, whose profiles can be found in the end notes of Ch38.

Your name is DECIMO SCLEPI, and you think you are actually going to die, because you just saw the alien spy give The Grand Highblood a saucy wink and you saw him _see_ it no one is ever going to believe you.

Also the Empress is there, which is not too big an issue because you were expecting her, but the Empress is here _now,_ eighteen hours into the trial, and your coworker-slash-boss-slash-palecrush (_MAYBE?!_) fell asleep like twenty minutes ago with his head resting on your shoulder nub and _the Empress is **HERE**._

You need to wake him up. That’s the only course of action here; he’s the head detecquisitor assigned to the case, he’s going to be _needed_ to give evidence, especially with the evidence database down, and if someone spots him or _any of you_ dozing mid-trial it’ll be _all_ your heads on the tines of the Empress’ culling fork-

Then Vitaal makes a little snuffling noise and _hoooooo_ you can_not_ do this. You need help. More specifically you need _Namere’s_ help, but she and that twerp Vipera are off trying to catch a clown, so it’s just you and your sleeping coworker and your two other coworkers, one of which is knitting the ugliest pair of pants you’ve ever seen and the other of which is Recomb.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh. But you seriously doubt Recomb is going to be any more helpful than you are. Case in point: Recomb attempting to subtly position themselves to stand in front of you two, succeeding only in making you look ten times more suspicious. You should appreciate the effort, probably, except you really, really don’t, because nothing has been fixed.

That leaves Plan B.

“{  
Lamout.  
Wake him up.  
Carefully.  
_//please please please I’m sorry I called your cardigan ugly that one time i swear i had no idea you made it please just forget that the same way you forget all your other responsibilities and HELP ME_

}”

“I’m in the middλe of a row.” says Lamout, visibly reaching the end of a row of stitches, switching sides, and immediately starting a new one.

“{  
Lamout.  
…  
Please?_  
//HELP_  
}”

“Why don’t you do it. You have one hand free.”

Well, she’s not wrong. However, the thought of doing _that_ is making every single one of your internal organs quake, so- guess you’ll die! Guess you’ll die.

You are just about to consign yourself and your team to trident-based evisceration at the whims of one Zanzin Lamout when the imperial anthem comes blasting over the speakers directly above where you and the rest of the team are standing. Lamout drops a stitch and swears (good), Recomb falls over (HOW), and, mercy of mercies, Vitaal peels his face off your shoulder nub and jolts upright in his seat. He blinks around sleepily at the courtblock. “Oh, she’s finally here.” he mutters, before turning to you. Shit. Fuck. His hair’s messy, how can he stand to look like that, maybe if you asked he’d let you fix i-

You snap yourself back to attention just to catch Vitaal saying “-anything else happened while I was out?”

You consider telling him about the saucy wink.

You do not.

“{  
No.  
More stalling, as expected.  
I could ask a stenografter for a copy of their notes, if you need a more accurate record.

}”

“No, I don’t think so. I trust your judgement.” His palmhusk goes off, and he hurriedly goes to silence it, even though the ringtone is completely drowned out by the anthem. He picks it up, “Versus. How goes the…? Mmm. I see.” He stands and walks a few feet away to continue the call in private. In the meantime, you allow yourself to relax just a little, though the backless stone bench makes it rather difficult. You suppose you should feel peeved about you and all the other members of the investigation being relegated to such uncomfortable seats, but really you’re more annoyed at _yourself_ for not remembering to bring some kind of cushioning. This isn’t your first hoofbeast pageant, after all. You should have known better.

Then again, this case had been particularly rushed. The trial was slapdash to say the least; they hadn’t even announced the specific courtress until six hours before it started, giving the lot of you barely enough time to scrape together all the physical evidence on hand before rushing to catch the last undersea shuttle. It would seem you made the right choice, though; with the criminal evidence database down- and you can still barely believe it; one minute it was there, the next it was just fucking _gone_\- the only service the verification drones have left is verifying whether existing laws are being cited and used correctly. But all those meticulously copied forensic reports? The digital footage? The daily investigation memos? Gone. Obliterated. _Wasted. _You worked _so hard _on filing those, and now, because of a stupid fucking technical difficulty-

Wait one second.

Technical difficulty? No, that’s way too convenient. Especially _now_, when it actually matters. Could this be some kind of _conspiracy?_

It would make sense, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t even be the first time. The explosion that had taken out the offices two wipes ago had coincided exactly with a major loss of evidence in the form of the alien’s belongings. It was perfectly plausible to assume that the dissidents working with the alien would attempt something similar during the trial. But where are you going to get _proof_ of that? The previous theft of evidence had occurred during a major power outage, and even using bulbwitness testigories, Vitaal was the only one who’d actually _seen_ someone run off with the stuff. There was no way that story would hold up.

There’s something very wrong in all this. You can’t quite put your prong on it just yet, but something is _definitely_ going on. You do a quick scan over the courtblock, searching for anything out of place.

In the old days, the two legislacerator teams would have faced off from either end of a semicircular walkway, with His Honorable Tyranny’s pit between them. This is still very much the case, though nowadays a heavily barbed mesh is placed over said pit to limit audience casualties. (Note the use of the word “limit”. His Honorable Tyranny could shred the mesh layer easily with his claws; it simply serves to discourage him.) Also between the opposing groups is the so-called defendant- the alien, in this case- in a cage suspended above the pit. Curving around this walkway on either side are the spectators’ stands, and, because this is imperial court, a massive golden throne right in the middle of each set of stands. Between the stands is a walkway designated for stance-changers (which also takes them almost directly over H.H.T.’s pit) and below that, nearly at floor level, is a small seating area reserved for court officials- stenografters, drone repairpersons, and, of course, members of imperial law enforcement. If you crane your neck just so, you can see the spectators fairly well, most of which have just snapped out of a doze and are now bowing furiously to the Empress and her guest. However, one spectator looks very obviously unfazed- the lone troll sat on the alien side.

_That_ seems suspicious for sure. The troll has been on their palmhusk the entire time, and only now seems to be paying attention, if “paying attention” means occasionally glancing between their husk screen and the spectacle of the Empress being greeted by the Highblood council. Just like how the legislacerators on the alien side only now look to be taking things seriously, it’s like he _knew_ nothing mattered up until this point. Could he be working with them? Well, that might not be a crime in itself, but if they were actively involved in sabotage, then…

You need to see what’s on that palmhusk. This you know.

Vitaal returns to your group just as the last staticky bars of the anthem fade off into the distance. His expression is carefully neutral, but as he takes his place between you and Lamout you can see just the faintest hint of satisfaction curling at the corners of his lips. “Good news.”  He says, and then smiles, unexpectedly. There’s a glint of something reptilian in his teeth when he does. “They succeeded.” 

Well, _that’s_ a surprise, for sure. When you’d heard that your younger coworkers had snuck into the fucking Day of Delight carnival, you’d expected never to see them again. Which would have been a good thing, in the case of Vipera. Well, you suppose you can’t have everything. Or anything. But that’s just your fault most of the time.

Okay, focus, you need to focus. The Alternian legislacerators are going to need any advantage they can get. Your best course of action right now is to take out the maybe-hacker up in the stands. Which could be tricky, considering that the trial is technically still ongoing. You peek over at the stands and see that some of the courtblock officials are scrambling around to find GHB seat while said troll just stands off to the side, completely unperturbed. The Empress is lounging sideways in her throne, picking idly at her claws while the Highblood Council talks at her, showing as much interest towards them as one would show a small cloud of deathgnats. Even in repose, her presence is almost completely overwhelming, making it even odder just how unaffected those on the alien spy’s side appear to be.

As for the alien themselves, well, they’re looking at the Empress too, but not with fear or awe, but with a peculiar mixture of curiosity and disdain. For a split second, you feel a sudden urge to know what it is they’re thinking. The impulse quickly fades as you remember yourself, however. Seriously? This is _exactly_ how they must have drawn others to their side- using their mysterious extraterrestrial allure to draw them in, then bam! Treason! Cunning indeed. Going pants-less must have been part of their strategy, too. Who would show off strutpods like THOSE unless they had a tactical reason to do so?

“—=thats fantastic=—=im glad theyre safe!=—=er=—=do we know where they are?=—” Recomb is saying to Vitaal when you manage to snap out of your thoughts. “—=night one of the trial is going to be over soon=—=i mean=—=unless someone uses a special move to extend it or something=—”

“Let’s hope they don’t.” Vitaal replies sharply, looking sick to his acid tract at the suggestion. You and your spine both agree with the sentiment. “And no, they won’t make it down here before tomorrow night. Today will probably be considered a waste, anyhow. If the legal teams have any more bullshittery planned-” he glanced at his watch- “They only have about two hours left for it.”

Two hours. If you can rat out and nab another traitor besides the one apprehended by Versus and Vipera within those two hours, you could be giving the Alternia team a significant advantage, especially if said traitor is responsible for the hacks. One problem, though- you’re not _exactly_ sure of how you’re going to get that done. But it’s got to be done and it’s got to be done _now_.

You take a huge breath to steel yourself and explain your half-assed idea to Vitaal.

“You’re telling me you think we should take advantage of the unofficial break to apprehend a possible traitor. Which would involve entering the stands. The stands which cannot be entered by anyone who’s not a designated spectator.”

“{  
Er.  
Yes.  
Considering the multiple security breaches regarding the evidence database, I believe we would be well within our right as member of law enforcement to question a potential suspect.  
We don’t know that we’ll be able to locate them after court is adjourned for the night.  
I’ll do it myself, even.  
_//…_

}”

“…take someone with you. And _be careful_. From what I’ve heard, the rules of court etiquette tend to change very quickly once the Empress is in the block.” 

“{  
Right.  
I’ll do that.  
}” you say, trying not to think too deeply about the concern in his voice.

You end up taking Recomb, because Lamout is once again (not) in the middle of a row of stitches, and the two of you skirt around the edge of the pit and the walkway to climb into the stands designated for supporters of the alien. The cerulean guy is lounging at the foot of the throne on this side, still tapping away on his palmhusk with one hand. How that thing has managed to stay active almost twenty hours is a mystery, but it’s one you’re about to uncover.

You clear your throat and _politely_ inform the guy that all technology brought into the courtblock is subject to scanning.

He doesn’t look up. “already got it scanned on the way in my guy; no problems here;”

Hmm, okay, this sucks. You wave a hand to cut off Recomb, who you can sense is right on the brink of an apology. Recomb’s build makes them very helpfully intimidating, but their everything else tends to have the opposite effect.

You tell the guy, less politely, that present technical difficulties have altered the circumstances vis-à-vis technology permissions and that other devices presently within the courtblock may be at risk of similar issues, therefore the two of you are performing a courtesy sweep of such devices to ensure the safety of other imperial citizens’ personal data and private information lest it be put in jeopardy.

“my system = airtight; trust me i do this for a living; so no worries here haha;”

You tell the guy to give you his fucking phone.

He hands it over facedown. You flip it just in time to see the small animated flapbeast icon plummet to its death. The score **690** flashes across the screen.

“—=oh nice=—” says Recomb. You think you are beginning to understand why Vitaal is so tired all of the time.

You pocket the palmhusk.   
“{  
It’ll be returned by the end of the trial.  
}”

“cool;” the ceruleanblood says, but his pusher clearly isn’t in it; he looks surprised- chilled, even. Was he not expecting this? Or was he so bad at covering his tracks that he-

**“You planning to fuckin move anytime soon?”**

You turn just in time to see The Grand Fucking Highblood settling into the mostly-empty stands, reclining back across multiple rows of seats and crossing his arms under his head. **“Let a motherfucker get his chill on.”**

The courtblock goes very, very quiet.

“TRIAL RESUMES” announces one of the drones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, giving Sclepi a long, panicky thought process similar to how mine is sometimes: haha cringe light player moments
> 
> Also, note: it hasn’t been referenced in this chapter, but MSPAR isn’t wearing Mallek’s hoodie now, nor were they when they got arrested. THAT would not have been a good idea.


	46. Of Trials and Errors, Part the Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I should have mentioned it sooner, but the Highblood Council is composed of five members: high-ranking individuals from castes teal, cerulean, indigo, and purple, as well as the heiress, Trizza Tethis. So yes, she’s there too. 
> 
> The composition of the audience is: 3500 civilians, the five members of the Council, the Empress, and GHB, which brings the total count to 3507.
> 
> The caste composition of the civilian group is roughly even per caste (minus fuchsia), for some useless semblance of fairness.

* * *

[note from cop:er: th:s :s the second part of a two-part record. to see the f:rst half, please see f:le MXA-0600, f:l:ng cab:net no. 22 :n arch:ve 4.]

* * *

Imperial court case no. 618219201251919 

Date 09D.23P.932S. B. I. D. 

Trial designation Alternia VS. The Alien Spy (Species unknown) 

𝕺fficial court record of apprentice court stenografter goomby, taking over from luumis, who passed out when the empress and the grand highblood walked in. 𝕷oser. 𝕴m not going to wake them up. 𝕾enior court stenografter dibala is going oinkbeast sliver on the stenograft machine and doesnt seem to have notice they passed out or that i stole luumis notes so i guess its fine.

[note from cop:er: :t :s not f:ne. current f:l:ng protocols d:ctate that th:s k:nd of unorthodox co-wr:t:ng :s :lleg:t:mate, forc:ng me to spl:t a s:ngle record into two ent:rely separate f:les. do not do th:s. :t :s a waste of valuable t:me and space.] 

  
22:19 𝕿heres a lot happening but the gist of it is the grand highblood walked over to the other side and just sat down. 𝕿hats basically it! 𝕿he highblood council looks really upset. most of them are standing and yelling things at each other. 𝕴m kinda tempted to steal one of their chairs while theyre distracted but napping on a cold stone floor has taken its toll and i do not think my limbs want to move ever again. 𝕾ucks globes.

  
𝖀h theres also some other folks in the stands on the other side but i dont think they count, plus theyre leaving. 𝕴 think theyre coming over here? oh its just some of those cerulean cops. 𝖂hatever. 𝖀hh and now the empress is speaking. 𝕾he looks…not mad or confused, just really…whats the word…like she just heard a really good joke.   
[note from cop:er: amused, the word :s amused.]

  
SCOREBOARD: 2 : 3505

  
22:20 𝕺kay okay so stuffs really happening now. 𝕷ike really. 𝕺ne of the purplebloods in the stands on the alternia side- didnt look up her castename yet but shes very big- stood up and said something. 𝕴t was a lot of clowny stuff so i wasnt paying attention too much but then there was something like “our benefacTor’s blessing” and “one of ours” and then every single one of the purplebloods in the stands got up and changed sides. 𝖂hich was a lot. 𝕺ne of the council members went too, so now the remaining four are even more upset than before, especially the heiress. 𝕴f i couldnt steal a chair before i bet i could now. wait hold on

22:21 𝕹ever mind. 𝕬nyways

SCOREBOARD: 314 : 3193

22:24 𝕿he trial resumes on the alternia sides turn. 𝕷g. ermine uses their turn to move the trial into the next phase and begin verifying each of the individual crimes. 𝕷uumis already wrote them all but im gonna write them again because i forgot and also their handwriting is trash.[note from cop:er: both sets of handwr:t:ng are equally bad.]

𝕿he charges being leveled are:

  * 𝕭eing an extraterrestrial lifeform [VERIFIED]
  * 𝕯riving without a license [VERIFIED]
  * 𝖀nlawful dwelling on alternian soil [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝖀nlawful takeoff and/or landing on alternian soil [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕯estruction of imperial property [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕯estruction of imperial satellite moon [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕻ossessing blood not officially recognized by the hemospectrum [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴nciting treasonous intent [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴nciting treasonous action [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴nciting treason via humorous social media content [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴nterference with public event(s) [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴nappropriate quadrant solicitation(s) [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕻ossible intent to pollute incestuous slurry [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕴ndirect interference with official imperial affairs [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕯irect interference with official imperial affairs [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕻ublic indecency (re: lack of pants) [UNVERIFIED???]

𝕷g. ermine asks the alien side if they concede. 𝕹lg. entykk states that no they do not concede to move to the next phase because, “wwwwe haven’t stated our charges yet.”

  
22:31 𝕿hat was a whole lot of rules checking but yes, apparently both sides can charge the other with crimes. 𝖂hich probably means this trial is going to last a whole week. 𝕬nd day 1 was almost over…why couldnt they just finish today…   
𝕽ules also state, apparently, that a team can force the next phase to start even if the other side hasnt finished yet, based on a majority vote between legal teams. 𝕿he alternia side has decided to push for a vote.

22:34 𝕿he results of the vote on the motion to move to the next phase were:

𝕱or: lg. ermine, lg. matere, nlg. retria   
𝕬gainst: nlg. entykk, nlg. gorjek, nlg sasuke, nlg. ounymm

𝕬s per the results, not one will not be moving to the next phase yet. 𝕴 really wanna leave…i wonder if luumis has any food in their pockets. hold on im going to check

22:35 𝕴 almost knocked over the stenograft machine and got yelled at but on the bright side luumis didnt wake up and now i have three whole crackers

22:36 𝕿he turn passes to the alien side. 𝕹lg. entykk and nlg. gorjek play a few rounds of mace-shield-spike pit. 𝕿hen nlg. entykk levels the following charges against the sovereign empire of alternia:

  * 𝖀nlawful persecution of imperial subject(s) [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕱alse accusations of various criminal offenses [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕿hreats to general planetary safety [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝖂illful and unwarranted sabotage of another subject’s quadrants [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕿heft of personal property [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝖂ithholding of personal property [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝕲eneral fuckery [UNVERIFIED]
  * 𝖀nwarranted criticism of another subject’s clothing choices [UNVERIFIED????]
  * 𝕮omplete and total injustice [UNVERIFIED]

𝖀proar ensues on both sides of the courtblock. 𝕿he empress stays strangely quiet, though, just looking really intensely at neophyte legislacerator entykk. 𝕯efinitely wouldnt want to be her right now. 𝕴 also might have sprayed some crumbs from the cracker on luumis’ notes but im sure they wont notice.

[note from cop:er: : am so fucking mad]

𝕿hings are definitely getting exciting. 𝕾ome of the charges directly oppose those from the other side, but others…those are wild. 𝖂ho even knows whats coming next.

  
22:51 𝕿he alternia side uses up a rare-class variant of the Time-Out card- which cant be opposed and can be used regardless of the other sides consent- to take a 15 minute break. 𝕹othing happens theyre just whispering a lot.

𝖂hen the break ends, the trial formally proceeds to the next phase, FINALLY.

22:54 𝕿he alien side wastes no time. 𝕿hey hit the Conviction Buzzer before the other team can and score an easy point by presenting a sub-sub-laceration stating that pantlessness is not technically grounds for a pubic indecency charge so long as the individuals genitalia are obscured, and all existing camera footage of the alien in different outfits shows that they have those parts obscured. 𝕸aybe. 𝕻robably. 𝕴ts hard to tell. 𝕭ut anyways the verification drone confirms the law is indeed real, and because they verified one of their charges and invalidated their opponents in the same turn, the rules state they get one extra turn.

22:55 𝖀nexpectedly, the alien side choose to pass the extra turn on to the alternia side.

22:56 𝕿he alternia side seem surprised but jump into their prosecution regardless. 𝕿hey bring up photographs showing the aliens former hive on the holoscreen and state that the appropriation of the dwelling was unlawful on the grounds of the alien not being a subject of the empire, according to another law i cant remember the number for. 

𝕹lg. retria takes the lead this turn, using one normal-class Deny or Testify card, which allows the legislacerator to hold on let me check okay so apparently it lets them ask one question of the accused, but it can only be a yes/no question. 𝕳e chooses to ask the alien if the place pictured was indeed the place they were living for some time.

𝕿he alien (from up in their cage) says what? could you speak up? 

𝕽etria repeats the question.

𝕿he alien says WHAT?

𝕽etria REPEATS the QUESTION.

𝕿he alien says yes.

𝕹lg. retria then states, “various ittems and biological samples confirmed tto be tthe creatture’s were found on the premises, revealing tthey dweltt tthere for a substtanttial amountt of ttime. as neitther a ttroll nor imperial subjectt, tthis would make tthem guiltty of unlawful dwelling on altternian soil.”

𝕮harge is pending verification.

22:58 𝕿he verification drone is unable to verify the charge presented by the alternia team. 𝕴t states that, because the watchtower is classified as retired military equipment and not a dwelling, residing in it is not against the law.

𝕹lg. retria, (who was probably just trying to save face imo), tries to change the charge to “appropriating military equipment”, but doing so would (apparently) require returning to the previous phase of the trial and THAT is decided based on a vote. 𝕺nce again they lost the vote, with the same results. 𝕭ig oof. 𝕮ant believe this guy just owned himself in front of the empress, what a loser, I mean hes kinda cute but thats not important haha anyways

23:00 𝕹lg. entykk expends one A Matter Of Fact action. 𝕱rom what ive been able to find from looking it up in the manual, this action basically brings everything to a stop so that some important detail can be clarified, mostly to do with the subject of the trial itself. 𝕴ts not a conditional action and can be used at any time, but it rarely is unless theres some glaring error within the trial proceedings.   
𝕴ts not a long speech, but its too dense for me to fully paraphrase (dibala over there seems to be trying, though, so go read his notes and stuff i guess). [note from cop:er: :m so fucking t:red.] 𝕿he gist is this:

𝕰ntykk wants it clarified for the remainder of the trial and afterwards that the alien is, irrefutably, a legitimate subject of the alternian empire. 𝕬pparently the guidelines for that arent actually that detailed- if youre in the system (they are), youre not a mutant (theyre technically not since theyre not a troll) and you live here (they do and sorta legally at that) youre good to go. 𝕰ssentially theyre asking that the remainder of the arguments on either side be viewed through the lens of them being a fellow subject.

𝕿he way A Matter Of Fact actions work is that its a vote that requires every one of the civilian audience members to vote. 𝕹one of us court officials get to vote though. 𝕴mpartiality or smth? 𝕳onestly i dont care at this point, ive been awake way too long and i barely know whats going on anymore

23:05 𝕿he results of the vote are in and holy fuck i cant believe they actually won?? like it was super close but people are actually reconsidering now that they can see the alien legislacerators are making good points, like trolls who arent purples are actually headed over the other side of the stands, hold on ill check the scoreboard in a sec- 362? 363? its still changing and its kind of hard to see over luumis’ stupid fa- oh fu

* * *

  
[note from cop:er: because the wr:ter of the record changes again, : needed to separately f:le a TH:RD sect:on of the notes. :f :t’s not clear by now, you should be able to f:nd :t :n the exact same room and cabinet as the others, just a few files down.]

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rules for playing mace-shield-spike pit: mace beats shield, shield beats spike pit (can be used as a bridge), and spike pit beats mace.


	47. Interlude ?: A Moment in Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I ended up updating twice today, so if you're reading the fic as it updates, be sure to go back and read the previous chapter!

You were never given a name, not in this life. The man in the manor with no face and cloth hands called you “little girl” and “child” and “little bitch”, but more often than any of those those he called you “handmaid”. Whenever he did you could hear a smile in his soundless voice, and with it came a prickle of revulsion that turns your stomach no matter how many times you hear it.

None of those are your name. You know that. And yet some part of you knows the shape of a word knitted tightly to the seams of your soul, a name that knows you more than _you_ know _it._ So when the manor burned and you fell smoldering to the gray kingdom below, you told the painted one and the shrouded one who you were for the very first time. Your name is _Damara_, and you are pissed as all hell.

There is a sweetness to this place that makes it hard to bear. The painted man told you to come to this house and to wait, fucking _wait,_ for one of the others to show up. Like you haven’t been waiting for assholes to show up and give you some inane shit to do your whole life. Granted, you haven’t met that many _people_ before, but the part of you that knows your name knows more assholes than you can count and you’re sick of all of them. With a huff, you pull your legs up onto the uncomfortable plastic chair so you can sit cross-legged and resume your oh-so-entertaining task of staring at the walls.

This place is…different. Like the manor was, and yet not like the manor was at all. The manor was a shifting, nauseating pit, where being awake and being asleep were just about the same, except one was a little bit worse than the other. But the clown church, behind the stench of blood and sugar, is…still. Strangely so. You get the feeling that this place could outlast the end of a universe. Not for very long, of course, but long enough. Should it all come down, the dog-eared edges of the firmament crackling and dissolving into the syrupy darkness of the void, this place would still exist, just for a little while. And _oh_, what a wonderful handful of seconds those last moments would be. You can practically _taste_ it.

The universe, however, does not appear to be in the mood to be nearly that entertaining. It continues to slog onwards, determinedly, trudging towards some impossible horizon. It’s embarrassing. Still, you continue to keep an eye on it anyways. The shrouded one asked you to, and it’s the least you can give in return for her kindness. Besides, at least it helps takes your mind off those two annoying clown kids running around the empty pews, shrieking nonsense.

The woman who is of you and who is not yet of you settles into the chair beside you in a flurry of scarlet glitter. “is it over yet?” she asks, brightly. Everything about her is bright. Hurts your eyes.

“No.” you tell her. “But soon.”


	48. Of Meetings and Matters, Complicated

You are WILDWHISP OF THE SOLARGLARES, and you are a proud warrior of your clan.

Since you were a kit, you have always been restless, dreaming of a great struggle in which to test your mettle and set your yet-unbroken claws to the fearful hides of your enemies. However, though these lands prowl with danger, your clan is a reclusive one, keeping to the cold and hollow places where no others dare to creep. It is a peaceful clan, and you are content with it, though there burns in you a longing for adventure that the oppressive chill of the caverns cannot hope to quench.

So, when early one night a fellow warrior crept into your nest and bade you to gather your things and follow her out of the caverns, you agreed without hesitation.

It has been some hours since you left the clan’s territory. The two of you are walking further and further into the wilds, with no sign of a hornhead dwelling for miles and miles. Spikepaw walks before you on the beaten trail, and you follow her in silence. She has not spoken once to you since leaving the caverns, and so the only noise is the soft, papery rustling of the tall grass which surrounds you. The twilight air is lightly humid, and drops of moisture cling to your pelt as you prowl. The sun is all but set, now, but in the distance you can see some rays still clawing upward from the horizon’s edge, leaving deep honey-amber gashes in the purpling sky. The first stars to emerge watch the struggle in silence, unblinking, as the last bars of light slowly thin and flicker out, in the face of the ever-growing darkness. Defeated, the sun accepts oblivion at last (for about twelve hours, that is), and night prevails.

With the final departure of the light comes a chill that prickles at your fur like icy needles. The urge to shiver is immediate, but you don’t give in. Why would you? After all, with your sturdy and well-insulated pelt, something so puny as this couldn’t possibly-

Well, no, you’re actually shivering quite badly right now, because you don’t have fur except in your imagination and you’re still in a short-sleeved sleeping shirt. Your cardigan is still in your bag, which Daraya is carrying, which means you’ll have to break the silence to get it.

Your name is WANSHI ADYATA, and you think you should probably say something.

It’s become very clear to you by this point that this isn’t a usual night trip like the ones Lanque used to take you on. For one thing, it’s Daraya, and as far as you know, Daraya prefers to do things like this alone. Another thing is that Daraya hasn’t said a single word since she woke you up, not on the walk to the train station, nor on the train, nor in the last hour or so as the two of you have walked along this empty stretch of country road. The only thing she told you was to follow her, and so you have.

You’ve known her to be quiet in the caverns too, but not around you. Sure, the two of you aren’t as close as you and Lanque used to be- she doesn’t really care for Soldier Purrbeasts and you don’t really care for brooding endlessly- but you can usually manage to get _some_ conversation out of her. In fact, it even seemed as though she was starting to be more open around the rest of you; you think you even saw her _talking to Bronya_ a couple wipes back, which never happens (not from a lack of trying on Bronya’s part).

Despite that, you don’t know if now is the best time to try talking to her. There’s this peculiar vibe she’s giving off. What’s the word they use for it in books, when someone seems really grim and determined and action-hero-y but also super sad? Is it resigned? No, that’s when someone’s given up. Acui-aqui- acquiescent? You’re not sure you know what that one means, actually. Whatever the word is, it’s what Daraya has going on right now, and you feel like trying to talk to her might make something bad happen. What “something bad” _means_ in this situation, you’re not sure, but regardless, you keep your mouth shut and continue to follow the other jade girl through a desolate patch of countryside. You try to keep the scraping of your feet in the dirt to a minimum, even as your tiredness causes them to drag. There’s something really weird and mysterious about all this, and you can’t help but feel excited, despite the uncertainty nagging you at the back of your mind.

You aren’t sure of what you’re looking at, at first. When Daraya makes a sharp turn and starts headed towards a dark smudge on the horizon, your first assumption is that those are two buildings way-off in the distance, but which soon resolve themselves into one building and a cluster of smaller structures nearby. As you approach, you begin to hear something; some kind of low, staticky vibration that you can feel deep down in your bones. A…humming, almost?

Suddenly, something darts past you- a small, dark shape that just barely misses your face. You gasp involuntarily and spin around, only to see nothing there. A bug?

The footsteps just ahead of you halt. “▲ you okay? ▼”

“[] yeah! yeah, i just- i think i saw a bug? []”

You hear a noise like air being sucked in through one’s teeth, and look up just in time to see Daraya grimace. “▲ right. yeah. those. ▼”

She turns to face you, expression morphing into one that is no less determined but a good deal more apologetic, kind of like “oo-kay, guess we’re going to have to deal with this”. Which you also can’t remember the word for.

“▲ the place we’re headed to, it’s. uh. one of those places you keep bees. the, uh, the… ▼”

“[] an apiary? []”

“▲ right. ▼” She pauses, squinting at you like she’s just remembered something. “▲ is that…are you going to be…okay…? ▼” You see a flash of panic cross her features- which, you can now see in the growing moonlight, are unusually devoid of eyeliner and mascara, giving her face an uncommon degree of readability.

Truth be told, you’re not sure. And that’s kind of exciting! You’ve only ever read about psionic apiaries, but you’ve never gotten the chance to visit one in person. You can remember at least one fight scene from a novel that took place in one of those. Of course, the battle ended with the opposing purrbeast being stung to death, but that’s just plain _cool_.

“[] Well, i don’t really knoW since i've never seen any, but i think i’ll be okay! []” you tell her. “[] it’s an adventure, right? []” You give her a smile, for reassurance. The answering ghost of a smirk that tugs at the corners of Daraya’s lips tells you you’ve succeeded.

Then she does something you weren’t expecting. Hesitantly, stiffly, looking kind of like she wants to die, Daraya outstretches a hand towards you.

Honestly? Your first instinct is to scoff. How old does she think you are?

But at the same time, it’s _Daraya,_ and in the light of the rising moon you can see something behind her grim expression that tells you she needs this more than you do.

You take her hand.

The two of you walk up to the larger of the two buildings, a cozy-looking cottage hive. As you approach, the humming becomes a low buzz, and you can see small purple shapes darting here and there- though, thankfully, they give you a wide berth. As you near the hive, Daraya uses the hand not holding yours to knock on the front door.

As you wait for someone to open the door and Daraya fidgets, you begin to wonder that this might not be a _normal_ super-secret night trip adventure away from the caverns. Which would suggest such a thing as a not-normal super-secret night trip adventure away from the caverns, which would be…something. You’re not sure. And that uncertainty isn’t really as exciting the way an apiary is exciting. It’s more exciting in the way the darkness that lies beyond the edge of a cliff is exciting.

Before your brain has enough time to make you properly afraid, the door opens, and there stands Lanque. Which is a surprise, for sure, but at least it’s a fairly pleasant one.

If this had been a sweep ago, you probably would have gone to hug him. But the passage of time and the expression on his face- the same as Daraya’s, though you’d like to believe it softened a little when he met your gaze- cause you to hesitate, and so, all you do is look him in the eye and ask “[] What’s going on? []”

Lanque’s gaze darts to and fro before he beckons the two of you inside. “come on. you don’t Want to be seen.” he says, curtly. You want to protest- seriously, you’ve just been dragged across the countryside with nary a hint as to the destination, and this is what you get?- but you feel Daraya’s sweaty prongs squeeze your own, and you reluctantly allow yourself to be led inside.

The interior of the cottage is warm and cozy, which very much contrasts the harried atmosphere of the place. You see several other trolls- two? Three? Five? Walking around, some carrying bags, others shouting instructions. As you look around, you notice one of the bags has Lanque’s symbol on it. So, a camping trip? But why? And who are all these other people?

It takes a few seconds for it to click, but then you start to notice some of those trolls look familiar, and then you realize exactly what it is that’s going on.

“[] _oh, _we’re leaving _now? _[]” The other two give you a look like “oh, you didn’t know?”, and you feel your face flush a little. “[] i just Woke up! Why didn’t _you_ just tell me Where We were going? []” you accuse Daraya, who shuffles awkwardly and crosses her arms over her chest in response. “▲ thought you knew it was tonight. ▼” she grumbles.

Right, tonight’s the night you leave the planet, because- in Lanque’s words- “there’s no future to be found here for any of us. it’s either we leaVe, or eVentually be cloistered aWay for the rest of our liVes in some remote colony to Work in a slurry decontamination plant, surrounded by nothing but filth and drones ready to cull anyone Who tries to leaVe.” Most of which you knew already from reading the schoolfeeding materials, but none were quite so- well- _bleak_ in their descriptions. Those readings always tried to make it sound like being a jade and getting to live in a cloister colony was something really cool and unique and special, but to you it just sounds…well, it sounds boring. The fact that you won’t be able to have visitors, or take any books or technology with you basically means you’ll be losing most sources of joy in your life. But leaving to explore old abandoned colonies and stations and build a new home? _That’s_ something out of an adventure novel. That’s something you’re looking forward to. Plus, if the teals and the others manage to win their case- which, Tirona has bragged to you several times, they most certainly _will-_ they’ll all be able to join you without any problems.

There’s just one thing missing from all this.

“[] When are the other jades arriving? []”

Lanque and Daraya exchange a Look. You feel a prickle of dread beginning to creep its way up your spine.

“▲ we asked some of the others. none of them wanted to come. ▼” Daraya says, eventually, crossing her arms over her chest as if to feign nonchalance. “▲ and even if some of them change their minds, it’s too late now. we have to leave sometime in the next night or so. ▼”

_What?_

“[] but that doesn’t make _sense_. tons of other jades sneak out all the time, so Why Wouldn’t they…[]”

Daraya shrugs helplessly. “▲ listen, i don’t know, okay? i couldn’t just _force_ them to come along. if it’s just us, then fine, it’s just us. ▼” She sighs. “▲ most of them don’t know the alien or any of these other people, so if they don’t want to gamble their lives on a bunch of strangers, whatever. that’s fair. but we don’t have the time to convince everyone. ▼”

“[] What about bronya and lynera? []” You protest. After all, those two know the alien too, so why wouldn’t they… wait. Hold on one second. That’s another Look right there. No way did they-

“[] _you didn’t tell them? _[]”

The other two jades startle at the force of your shout, which you have to admit is pretty satisfying. “▲ obviously we _tried_. ▼” Daraya hisses. “▲ they just- they- ▼” she takes a deep breath before continuing, “▲ lynera’s staying for bronya, and bronya’s staying for the caverns. there’s nothing we can do about that. ▼”

“[] but We can’t just leave them behind! []”

Lanque interjects sharply, venom seeping into his tones. “it’s their choice. if that bi- _lynera_ cares more about a dumb fucking crush than she does about her one chance at freedom, whateVer, she can rot. and don’t get me started on-“

He cuts off when Daraya elbows him in the side. “▲ she gets the point. ▼” Her voice is cold as ice. “▲ what’s done is done, so stop talking about it. ▼”

You can sense that they’ve had this argument before, and that they’re very near to reprising it again. For a brief moment, you consider the merits of getting involved versus slipping away while they’re distracted. You decide go for the marginally better option and carefully edge away as the two glare at each other with decidedly non-platonic dislike. You’ve never known them to have any real malice for one another, but in the current situation, it seems like they both just need someone to yell at to make them feel better. Well, that’s not going to be you, that’s for certain.

Bronya choosing to stay behind is…well…you don’t know how you feel about it. If what Daraya said is true, then she’s made her choice. You can respect that- but also, you know for damn sure that you are going to find a way to sneak letters to her and Lynera after they’ve been cloistered. That’s a promise to yourself you intend to keep.

It's still unclear to you just how many people are in the hive, what with people moving in and out of rooms every few seconds. Some of them look familiar, and others are decidedly…not. For instance, perched on one end of the sofa is a ceruleanblood girl you’ve never seen, who is carefully attempting to paint the claws of a disgruntled-looking rustblood. Curled beside them on the rustblooded troll’s other side is a goldblood, snoring occasionally. You decide not to approach them; they look pretty busy.

You peek around the other rooms, trying not to get in anyone’s way. One person you’re surprised to see is Elwurd- yes, _the_ Elwurd, biggest heartthrob of the caverns, though you’ve never really seen what the big deal is with her- talking to a brightly-dressed goldblood in one of the other rooms. So she was friends with the alien too? Makes sense. You debate whether or not to warn Daraya in advance, but ultimately decide nah, it’ll be funny seeing her get flustered after putting you through the whole cryptic journey across the city. Every so often you have to move to avoid bumping into a tall bronzeblood guy- probably the pilot you heard about, judging from the cool goggles- and a small goldblood boy, who are carrying tall jars of something golden and gelatinous-looking from a door with some stairs leading down over to the front door of the hive. You make a mental note to ask the pilot guy about the spaceship later, and also maybe if you could borrow the cool goggles, because _duh._

It's when you wander back into the sitting room that you see someone you _weren’t_ expecting to see here, though you’re very glad you did. Fighting down to urge to start grinning madly, you make your way past the sofa and across the sitting-room rug with careful, exaggerated footsteps, until the troll currently messing with the TV monitor is less than a foot in front of you. You pause one second to check that she’s well and truly distracted, then reach out and use one claw to give her a poke right in the middle of the back.

To your delight, Tirona leaps about a foot in the air with a shriek. When she turns, the look she gives you is one of exasperation. “oh, it’s _you.”_ she grumbles, but you can tell she’s happy to see you, too.

“[] i thought you said you Were going to sneak along on the legal mission to check out that monster you have a pitycrush on? []” you point out, fighting to keep yourself from giggling as you say it. Tirona immediately starts sputtering. “you- his honorabl33 tyranny isnt my _pitycrush_! i just think h33s cool!” She huffs and puts her hands on her hips. “i was going to go along to off33r my p33rsuasiv33 33xp33rtis33, of cours33.”

“[] of course. []”

“dont you mock m33!”

“[] i Would never! oWo []”

She squints at you suspiciously. You bat your eyes innocently. She looks disgusted. Success.

“[] anyWays, Why are you trying to turn the tv on from here? Why dont you use the remote? []”

“you think i hav33nt b3333n looking for it since i got h33r33?” She groans, hands reaching up to pull at her hair. “at this rate im gonna miss all th33 good parts…day 1 of the trial is gonna b33 ov33r any minut33 now.”

You’re tempted to tease her again, but truth be told, you’re pretty curious to see the trial proceedings, too. And, unlike Tirona, you have _sweeps’_ worth of experience of finding lost objects. You find it kind of fun, actually. It lets you pretend you’re a hunter looking for your prey.

Imagining the sharp senses of a soldier purrbeast, you scan the small sitting room. The rug looks smooth, and there doesn’t look to be anything under any of the sofas or armchairs, so maybe… You look at the couch, upon which are the three trolls you’d seen earlier. There! Your gaze catches on something black and plastic-looking tucked under the sleeping goldblood girl. You wave frantically over at the rustblooded troll to get her attention, then point several times at the remote. She gives you a flat look, shows you the still-drying claw paint on her free hand, then uses it to point to where the ceruleanblood is still painting the other one.

You attempt to make the most sad-looking face you can. The rustblood rolls her eyes, but regardless she reaches over to painstakingly wiggle the remote from under the goldblood with the tips of her claws and tosses it to you. The shocked surprise on Tirona’s face when you hand it to her is priceless. “thanks, i gu33ss”, she mumbles, avoiding your gaze. She hits the power button.

The TV screen flickers once, twice, then flashes to life, just in time for you all to see three shining, golden tines sink into His Honorable Tyranny’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book nerd Wanshi messing with meme nerd Tirona is very possibly one of my favorite interactions out of all the ones in this fic so far


	49. Of Trials and Errors, Part the Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for gore towards the end of this chapter

You are SENIOR LEGISLACERATOR SERYSS ERMINE, and you’re positive that everything is going to be just fine.

So _what_ if this trial was supposed to be over on day one? It’s not like it’ll make much a difference when you win. What’s another day of entertaining the bigwigs going to cost you, eh? Besides, it’s not every day a sector legislacerator gets to pop down to the _undersea capital_ for a case. To the royal courtblock, no less. Of course, a part of you has always hoped and dreamed for a chance to perform here, but to have the Empress herself in attendance? Truly an unparalleled experience. With such an esteemed crowd to entertain, why _shouldn’t_ you simply take your time? There’s no rush, really, and-

You catch a glimpse of a school of silvery scalebeasts flitting past one of the large windows and reflexively cringe. _Eurgh. _You _hate_ having to go undersea for work. It’s not _just_ having to stare at dead-eyed scalebeasts all day- ugh, creepy- but there’s that _smell,_ too, that rank salty odor that permeates every space and makes the inside of your mouth feel crusty and sour, which doesn’t help at all with the rolling nausea that started on the submarine shuttle and never really went away. If you hadn’t finished the bottle four hours ago, you would have been taking another antiemetic tablet or two right about now, but as things stand, all you can do is take deep breaths and ignore it.

Worse still, the smell gets in your _clothes_, too. Every time you come back to land after a seadweller case, you have to wash your robes at _least_ four times to get the smell out. _Every. Single. Time._ And that’s not even the worst-case scenario. The worst-case scenario is you having to actually _spend the night_ in the capital and be forced to breathe in the reek of seawater all day long. Everything just feels so slimy and damp and gross and _you just want to go home._ Like, _now_.

Undersea cases are the absolute worst. They’re the worst and no one_ fucking _understands. If they did, this trial would be over already.

You manage to tear your eyes away from the window and turn your attention back to the courtblock. It’s your turn next, but none of you can say a word until the scoreboard stops changing. After every normal round of debate, there follows a two-minute interval during which time audience members can change sides, and after Entykk’s little speech, well… you didn’t think it amounted to much, but _apparently_ some found it moving in more ways than one, because at least a couple dozen are slowly making their way across the single-file walkway. You count them, more to distract yourself than anything else. Not nearly enough to tip the scales, but enough to make you look bad. Great. Well, on the bright side, if you lose some of your reputation, there’s a very good chance you won’t have to take any more seadweller cases for a good, _long_ while, and any opportunity to stay clear of the ocean is one you’ll gladly take.

Plus, those trolls no doubt know what kind of gamble they’re taking. Everyone _knows_ that anyone on the losing side of a high-priority trial gets discreetly bumped up a rank on the culling priority list. If they want to bank their lives on the losers, well, so be it. At this point, you’re not looking for a clean win. You’re looking for a quick one.

One hour left on the clock. In that time, you’re going to make damn well sure you get as many charges verified as possible. If you do, that means a five-hundred-point bonus added to your team’s score, at which point the other side will have no way of beating you. You can _do_ this. Just need to keep focused and stay aware. They didn’t pick you to head this team for nothing, after all.

You do a quick look over your team while the scoreboard recalibrates. There’s Matere, who’s worked a dozen other cases with you before and, of course, is sat on the floor playing scowlitaire and pointedly ignoring you and everyone else. Good old Kadija. Nice to see _she_ isn’t shaken by any of the recent events. Unfortunate that the same can’t be said of the others. Retria looks shaken by his loss- them’s the breaks, kid, get over it- and the two other new kids don’t look to be doing much better. Sasuke keeps shuffling and reshuffling the evidence files very two minutes and Ounyym keeps looking around like she’s trying to find a way out. Right now, however, she’s looking out at the cage above His Honorable Tyranny’s pit.

You sneak a peek at her expression. The rage in it is startling, not to mention unexpected; in the short time you’ve known the cerulean neophyte, the most expressive you’ve ever seen her is “slightly perturbed”. But this anger you see in her now is more than just intense- it screams _personal._

Perhaps she had some sort of…_encounter_ with the creature in the past? Something that could help to boost your side’s arguments, mayhaps? Ah, no, surely she would have told you during the planning sessions if that were the case. But ooh, are you curious to know what it is. Perhaps a harmless query wouldn’t hurt.

“Something the _matter?”_

The ceruleanblood’s shoulders tense, sharply, then lower, and she turns to you with a neutral expression half-hidden by a thick curtain of hair. “yes * i mean * <yes, I am fine. I am simply considering the best strategy with which to proceed next turn.>”

A sweet sentiment, but you’ve had more than enough of bumbling neophytes for one night. “That won’t be _necessary. _I think I’ll take the next round _myself. _In the meantime, try not to get so _distracted._” A bit harsh, but the newbies need to learn that there’s no room for error in these sorts of trials.

Ounyym’s expression doesn’t change, albeit a slight twitch in one bulblid. You ignore it and move on, grabbing some of the files from the other neophyte and walking towards the front of the platform. About time you took matters into your own hands.

Now that the scoreboard has ceased changing, you can now see what it reads: 2140 : 1367. Tch. What a farce. Establishing the alien to be a subject under imperial law in order to sway the court in their favor? The neophytes on the opposite side must be joking. Sure, their new status prevents you interfering directly or indirectly with imperial affairs as an outsider, but interfering with said affairs as an _insider_ warrants an even worse penalty. Plus, if they’re truly a mutant, most legal protections won’t even apply.

…Though, you must admit that it puts you in a rather precarious situation, what with the charges now leveled against Alternia. There are laws for dealing with insubordinate troll subjects, and there are laws for dealing with alien lifeforms, but there are no laws dealing with _alien troll subjects._ Hmph. You suppose you’ll just have to make do.

You lock eyes with the opposing team, assessing. You must admit, they get points for style. It turns out the classic legislacerator’s uniform looks even more imposing in black, the offensively red accents flashing with every movement. The long-haired one stands with one hand on his hip, flipping his glossy hair occasionally, the elegance of the movement slightly offset by the shit-eating grin on his weaselly face. The other cuts a more austere figure, hands folded behind her back, expression still and determined. Her gaze is like ice.

Unfortunately for them, you have experience on your side, and experience has its rewards, especially in _this_ particular line of work. With a smirk, you draw a rare-class Seen and not Heard card and toss it down. Seconds later, you witness as on the other side of the walkway rise four glass walls, entrapping the two legislacerators. One of the walls has an extra sheet of glass connected by a hinge, and when the wall has fully risen, the fifth plate of glass swings down to form a roof, fully encapsulating the other team.

Neither of the two neophytes looks at all fazed by this development. Well, they will be soon enough. With the soundproof glass surrounding them for the next two turns, the audience won’t be able to hear them, rendering any counter-arguments useless. If you keep using status effect cards to neutralize their turns over the next hour or so, this trial might very well be finished by the hour’s end.

Without further ado, you use the bonus action provided by the card to make a conviction. “Citizen or not, let’s not forget the crime that brought us here in the _first place_. I would like to confirm that they are indeed responsible for destruction of imperial _property._” You take some photos from the file in your prongs and slide them into a compartment on the verification drone’s back to have them brought up on the large holoscreen above. “As you can see here, culling drone no. 111111 was found destroyed at the alien’s confirmed site of _residence._” With a bit of a flourish- you’re an entertainer, after all- you point up at the sad, tragic image of a culling drone crumpled and broken beside the collapsed watchtower. “Not only is this a crime, but it also indicates that this creature is clearly very _dangerous—”_

You feel a soft tap on your shoulder, but ignore it, determined to finish this. You can hear the surrounding spectators murmuring; surely you _must_ be getting through to them. “Is it really wise to let such a creature run around freely in _our Empire?”_ You swivel and point dramatically at the alien.

…who is crouched at the bottom of the cage making pspspsps noises at His Honorable Tyranny below. It is at this interval you unfortunately realize that the noises coming from the crowd all this time were, in fact, the sounds of many people trying to suppress their laughter.

You glare sharply at the creature. Why, that little- couldn’t they have been doing something more _threatening_ at that exact moment? Would that really have been too much to ask?

There’s _another_ tap on your shoulder, and you whirl to face them. _“What?”_

Neophyte Sasuke jolts, but manages to stand his ground, which is surprising given how terrified he looks. “Er- gomen- I mean-” He shoves a file in your direction. “We have a report here some- ah- “'information specia\ist” submitted. It’s about the drone.”

“What _about it?”_

Sweat beads on his forehead. “You might want to take a \ook.”

You tear into the file, rifling through until you find the tech report. The stamp tells you it’s from a legitimate specialist, which is a good sign, except that the report reads- “An _accident?”_

“Apparent\y, yes. The \ast transmissions sent by the drone were decoded, and nothing in them suggests fou\ p\ay.”

It takes everything in you not to fling the files to the ground in disgust. But alas, distracted though they may be by the alien- whose attempts at friendship (???) are being met with only stark silence from the gaping pit below- you still have over three thousand pairs of eyes on you, one of which is the Empress’, and so the show must go on. It simply _must._

You quickly reshuffle the photos on display so that the holoscreen now displays a picture of the green moon taken just a few wipes ago. You’d made sure to get one that very obviously showcases the huge, gaping hole in the side of it. Clearing your mealtunnel very loudly, you address the block once more: “And if you see here, their destruction of property extends far beyond the _surface_. The brutal attack launched on the moon caused a meteor storm that caused thousands of caegars’ worth of _damages._ Seeing as we have no such attacks recorded before their arrival on the planet, I believe we can deduce that they are _responsible.”_

You can already hear the tittering die down as you talk. This is it. The coup de grâce that lands the trial securely in your favor. “We know it couldn’t have been any of our own ships responsible for this _travesty._ The fact that this occurred within hours of the drone first identifying the alien and updating its culling priority can only indicate one thing: once the alien’s cover had been exposed, its extraterrestrial allies must have begun their attack on the planet _early._” You look directly at the opposing legislacerator team across the walkway as you speak. You know they can hear you, as the soundproofing is only one-way. They both look distinctly amused. Little do those brats know you’ve got an ace up your sleeve.

“Are we really going to let our precious Empire be _tarnished?_ I’m sure we all know this trial is only a _formality_. Amusing though they may be, there’s no denying that there is no way for this creature to be allowed to _live._” You hear murmuring from the crowd, and see that some of the spectators sat on the opposing side have begun to shift a little. “Even if the creature is itself harmless, there’s no telling what connections it may have _elsewhere_. Is keeping it alive truly a risk worth _taking?_ Surely a public execution can only serve to dissuade any invaders in the _future?”_

_This_ causes a stir, all right. You scan the stands and see brief flashes of panic, alarm, and anger as the assembled trolls consider your words. This is _it._ Just one more little push, and your victory will be secured.

You hear a sound like shuffling cards behind you, and then, softly, Matere’s gravelly voice: “_don’t get carried away. it's still too soon.”_

She’s right, you know, but you’re on a roll, and you want OUT of this undersea hell as soon as possible. It’s about time you ended this.

Only a handful of spectators shift between turns, bringing the scoreboard to 2158 : 1349. It hardly matters; next turn, it’s all going to be over, anyways.

The soundproofing effect is still up for the duration of the other team’s turn, of course, so they don’t even bother to speak. Gorjek flips his middle finger at you. How those two managed to pass their exams, you have no idea. At the end of their turn, the soundproof walls retreat back into their panels, and the turn order flips once more.

You waste no time. You reach into your deck and pull out one of your rarest, most valuable cards: VICTOR’S FEAST.

“There’s no use in this going on any longer, _is there?_ Because I currently hold over sixty percent of the available points, it is well within my jurisdiction to end this trial early-” you smirk- “-and move us straight into the _end_.”

The audience bursts into raucous applause, and for the first time in the last twenty-plus hours, Entykk and Gorjek actually look worried. You raise one hand to point at the enmeshed pit and the cage above it, “Is the creature worth keeping alive or _not?_ Why don’t we let His Honorable Tyranny decide the outcome, _shall we?”_ It takes everything in you not to laugh aloud as you say this. As though that old beast is even capable of real _thought_ anymore. The only thing he knows now is his hunger, and if his hunger chooses yes, the trial ends here and now.

The backup handlers scramble to their positions, and within seconds, the mesh that covers His Honorable Tyranny’s pit is retracting. From the depths he rises, a bloodthirsty behemoth with gleaming tusks and eyes filled with hungry malice, an ancient trident clenched in one great leathery hand. His beady eyes focus directly on the cage now suspended before him, and the pathetically small creature within.

Then, there’s a blinding flash of light, and His Honorable Tyranny looses a bone-rattling howl. You blink away the bright spots in your ganderbulbs just in time to see a piercing blue bolt of psionic energy shoot from somewhere above your heads and strike the back of the ancient beast’s skull. He lurches forward, yowling, but remains upright, the tough armor resisting combustion. What is _happening?_

Another bolt shoots down to hit him in in the chest this time, and he staggers a bit, almost crushing the cage in the process. To your growing horror, you watch as he climbs unsteadily out of the pit, completely ignoring the alien, and instead takes a lurching step towards the stands. He attempts to be trying to track whatever attacked him, but whatever it is, it’s moving too fast for him or anyone else to get a look at. In the stands, trolls scramble over one another to get away, making a beeline for the locked courtblock doors.

Behind you, you think you hear Matere mutter, “_told you it was too soon.”_

There’s a flash of gold, and you turn your head just in time to see the Heiress throw her culling fork directly at the beast with a shriek of “keep aΨay, you stupid fucking- don’t Ψe have shitbloods to keep it under control?”

Before she even finished speaking, a bronze symbol lights up on the ancient judge’s head. Almost immediately he stills, lowering a raised claw and slumping down to the courtblock floor. You automatically turn to see who could have controlled such a creature with such ease-

-and see the Empress, one hand extended towards him, eyes glowing with power, except she’s not looking at him. She’s got her power focused on him, but she’s looking at _you_, and the look in her eyes screams murder.

Oh, you are most definitely in trouble.

Before you can do anything- scream, die, maybe both- the Empress turns away to look directly at His Honorable Tyranny. Her lips curl into a cruel smirk. “now t)(at i t)(ink about it,” she muses aloud, stepping gracefully from her throne and descending the stands two at a time, “we cod go for a little c)(ange around here.”

In two swift, flawless motions, she draws her golden culling fork and drives it deep into His Honorable Tyranny’s neck. He looses a low, pitiful wail that quickly turns to a wet choking sound when she withdraws the trident, allowing the beast’s black blood to pour out onto the floor.

You’re paralyzed. Of course, you’ve known the truth of the monstrous judge for some time now; his growing senility and age causing him to become more monstrous, the instincts to rip and tear replacing those of sound judgement. But you’d always thought he’d be _there_, at least until his natural life expired. Now, watching black ichor pool around your boots, you’re beginning to think things may be very wrong. Possibly _have_ been wrong for a long time now.

Distantly you hear the soft chime that marks the end of day one of the trial. The doors open, and almost immediately trolls begin rushing out, desperate to get to safety. But what’s the point? You think, faintly. They’ll have to come back in another twenty-four hours. To a court without a Tyranny. What does it all mean? What _will_ this mean? You have absolutely no idea. No idea at all.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. “_c’mon, let’s go.”_

You turn dazedly to face Kadija, whose eyes are oddly sharp, considering it’s her. “_we need to leave right-fucking-now, seryss.”_

“…_why?”_

“_why do you think? day’s over. let’s get out of here.”_

As the two of you hurry over to the exit, taking the long way to avoid getting anywhere _near_ the Empress, you notice a few of the detecquisitors hurrying out as well, one of them shouting into a palmhusk. Most of the other officials seem to have gotten out as well; you see the medics, the stenografters, the substitute handlers, the…the…

Wait. Wasn’t it the detecquisitors who brought the alien in? So why aren’t they…

You whip you head back around to stare across the courtblock.

The Empress is cleaning blood off her trident, the agitated Highblood Council hovering nearby. There’s no sign of the other side’s legislacerators, and-

The door to the empty prisoner’s cage is hanging wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seryss' being creeped out by fish is 100% projecting on my part


	50. Of Blood and Bonds, Rejoined

You are now the ALIEN, and you are flying high. Both in the sense that you are so utterly, absurdly happy that it feels like your chest is full of sunbeams, and also in the sense that you are suspended a couple hundred feet above the ground. Or at least, what you _assume_ to be a couple hundred feet. You’re no mathematician. Then again, would a mathematician be able to tell either? Whose job is it to do that kind of hyper-accurate depth perception, anyways? It’s certainly not yours.

Come to think of it, you don’t really _have_ a job, do you? Weird how that never crossed your mind. It’s just never occurred to you to actually provide for yourself in some way. Based on literally everything you’ve done and said these last couple of months, it seems like _your_ personal Hierarchy of Needs is stacked with FRIENDSHIP taking up a huge slab at the bottom and BEING A FUNCTIONAL MEMBER OF A SOCIETY balanced precariously at the tippy-top.

Which, now that you think about it, is kind of weird. Like, why were you living in that one hovel for that long? You weren’t even a fugitive yet. Sure, you _would_ have been, probably, eventually, but considering how long it took people to figure out you were a bonafide extraterrestrial and not just some exquisitely fucked-up mutant, you probably could’ve had a stable income. From what, you have no idea. _Then_ you could have used your newfound stability to make _more _new friends, and voila! Hierarchy of needs finessed. Call that Maslow’s Ouroboros. You know, it really is weird that you’ve never thought to want anything more for yourself until now. Still, at least now you’ve _got_ friends. Nowhere left to go but up.

Except not literally, because going any higher than your current altitude would be so much more terrifying than it already is.

You’re encased in a compact bubble of air floating a ways above the undersea capital. From this height, you can see tiny troll-shaped figures zipping from building to building through the water. There are also a few forms of transport for non-aquatic trolls; most of the major roads have gleaming glass tunnels running along them, though not many. From what you can tell, your little legal shindig called for one of the largest gatherings of non-aquatic trolls to the undersea capital to attend the trial. Which means the capital is positively overstuffed at the moment, making it ideal for a getaway.

At that moment, the pale blue glow surrounding the edges of your bubble intensifies, and seconds later you feel the whole thing being tugged carefully downwards. The initial jolt sends you tumbling on your ass, but after that it’s a gentle drift. You look down and see that you’re above an apartment complex only a couple blocks down from the palace, but far enough from the courthouse that there aren’t any drones around. None of the handful of seadwellers flitting around the ocean floor below notice a thing as the bubble descends towards a hatch in the roof. The minute it comes in contact, the hatch swings open and several pairs of arms shoot out to pull you inside before hurriedly closing it.

Immediately you’re surrounded by shouting and a whole lot of jostling as several different people attempt to hug you/check you for injuries/talk to you all at once. A few well-placed flicks of a claw and several yelps of pain and you find yourself being pulled tightly into a familiar pair of arms. Your palemate- because honestly, what’s the use of even beating around the bush any longer- buries her face in your neck, and you cling tightly to her, fisting your hands into the back of the misappropriated legislacerator’s garb she’s still wearing. You’ve missed her. You’ve missed _this_, the feeling of safety and affection and _love_ and everything else you’ve come to associate with her. You can feel a stupid grin threatening to split your face as you laugh breathlessly into the crook of her neck, answered by a soft, rumbling purr you feel against your cheek.

You hear a loud, very pointed cough behind you and realize you’ve basically been doing the pale equivalent of making out in front of half your friend group. Polypa seems to realize this at the exact same time, and the two of you hastily spring apart, though she keeps one arm loosely wrapped around your waist.

“thanks a lot.” Tyzias says dryly, though you can see the hint of a smile on her face. You hadn’t been able to see her up close in the courtblock, but she looks completely wiped out. She’s not the only one; you can see Azdaja casually trying to pretend he’s just leaning against Konyyl and not being almost entirely supported by her. Controlling that bubble from this far off must have drained him. You ask if he’s okay.

He huffs in annoyance “||| I should be asking _you _that question. For a psionic of _my_ prowess, this feat was nothing more than a- |||”

“that other kid HELPED” states Konyyl, who gives up trying to help Azdaja stay on his feet and just hoists him up so she’s carrying him under one arm. “when he was done being distracted by the heiress, THAT IS.”

The other…who?

“>me >who else did you think roflmao”

You didn’t end up going with Folykl on the other ship? Doesn’t she need you to, you know, stay alive…? You say, alarmed.

“>nah >i gave her a massive recharge before we left >plus >shes got that other psionic kid around if she needs more lmao”

You mean Zebede? I don’t think he’s that kind of psionic…

He shrugs, clearly not too perturbed about his moirail’s safety. “>yeah i know about that obvs >she can use mind honey to keep her going if she really needs to >voidrots are probably the only ones who can eat that stuff safely lol” A huge grin breaks out on his face. “>plus >did you really think i was gonna pass up the chance to helm a ship”

Mallek cuts in, “that = only in the worst case scenario; dont get too excited;”

“>tfw a noob who got his husk confiscated by the cops tries to tell me what is and what isnt a good plan”

As content as you are to leave the boys to their bickering, your current garb (a featureless black tee) is neither fly nor dank and that is a situation you are looking to amend as immediately as possible. You ask, hopefully, if any of them brought something else for you to wear.

“Of-fucking-course we did.” quips Tagora, pulling you over into a half-hug, which Polypa allows, though she lets you go with some hesitance. “There’s a rental glidebuggy out front. As soon as things clear up out there, we’re heading out.”

You quickly scan the room, or rather, the area at the top of the stairwell leading up to the roof. There’s Polypa, Tegiri, Tyzias, Tagora, Kuprum, Mallek, Azdaja and Konyyl, and… huh. You were expecting to see a few other people there, but guess not. Then again, it’s a marvel that things worked out this well in the first place. Hopefully the rest of your stupid plan works out just as well.

As the lot of you carefully descend the building to where the submarine is parked (driven by Diemen who, it turns out, is a fantastic driver), Tyzias quietly lays out the situation. At present, Cirava, Elwurd, Zebede, Vikare, Skylla, Daraya, Lanque, Wanshi, Tirona, Marsti, Ardata, and Folykl _should_ all be leaving the planet very soon. The upset at the trial should have been a good enough cue (and distraction) for them to get out of the atmosphere. (Is Charun with them? you ask. “don’t knowwww.” she admits. “they’ve been helpful in sabotaging commmmmmmmunications towwwwers here and there, but they’re kind of a wwwwildcard.” Which makes sense.) If the group of _you_ can manage to pull off this particular heist, you should be able to join them soon.

You know this is going to be risky, but you can’t help but feel excited. You think you’re going to miss Alternia, fucked-up as it is, but the idea of bringing all your friends back to Earth with you is…it’s exciting, to say the least. You haven’t figured out _all_ the details yet, but that can wait until you’re all safely out of here.

…except that not all of you will be going.

Part of you knows this would happen. Everyone you’ve met here over the past few months has experienced the empire and its tyranny in different ways, and each has found their own ways of coping. It makes sense that not everyone would want to leave that small patch of safety they’d so painstakingly carved out for themselves. If there was a way to bend the rules of space and time to instantly teleport them all to Earth, you sure as fuck would- but the way things are now, the most you can do is provide them with this opportunity. Whether they choose to accept it or not is up to them, and as much as you’d like to drag them all along anyways, you just…can’t. It’s their choice, and theirs alone to make.

Instead of heading towards the palace hangar, Diemen drives the glidebuggy with all of you inside down a couple of side streets and parks it near a steep, featureless stone wall. You peer out one of the side windows and are surprised to note that it’s not too far from the royal courtblock, actually. So what’s going on? you ask.

“||| Just one additional errand that needs taking care of. |||” mumbles out Azdaja, who at this point has given up trying to act tough and is flopped across the seats with his legs in Konyyl’s lap and his head in yours, “||| Should be over with momentarily. |||”

Can someone who _doesn’t_ speak in cryptic terms to sound cool maybe tell me what’s going on? No offense, honeybee.

“while tegs and i were undercover * we found out the ceruleans managed to nab xoloto *|” Polypa speaks up from the other side of you, somewhat squished between you and the door of the vehicle. Her expression is thoughtful as she continues, “i would have thought they’d have gotten him out by now * based on what i managed to scope out * the cell block shouldn’t be too hard to get into * but they aren’t professionals so that could explain why it’s taking them a longer time *|”

Taking _who _a longer time? Who’s getting him out?

You hear Mallek snicker and Tagora sigh.

* * *

**SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER**

* * *

“For the last time[1], there will be no need for brute strength, here. It will only draw the drones’ attention to our current position.”

“[()] You don’t know _me_. I can snap off that lock more quietly than crushing a windpipe with a One-Handed Tyrian Chokehold Twister! [()]”

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds both gruesome and unnecessary. I _assure_ you, my lock-picking skills will be more than adequate for the task.[2]”

“[()] How can you not KNOW one of the Muscle Theater’s most famed moves? Its status is LEGENDARY! Even the most NOVICE of viewers knows its infamy. [()]”

“she’s got a point there / i knew about it even before i started training / it gets referenced a lot in other places / no one’s ever mentioned it to you?”

“My personal academic projects rarely allow for indulgence in so-called “popular culture”, so no.[3]”

“one of my favorite bands has a music video that features the move / you should really see it / do you listen to any death metal?”

“No, I don’t, but-”

“[()] For a noble indigo such as yourself to be unfamiliar with the SACRED ART of Muscle Theater…FOR SHAME! I tell you now, brother, I will make it my QUEST to bring you into the fold. [()]”

“There _really_ isn’t any need for that.[4] Honestly. Could you two _please_ just go keep watch while I work on getting this door opened[5]?”

“um / well / we already disabled the cameras and the guards / there really isn’t anything else to do around here except wait for you to be done / speaking of which / do you need help?”

“Unless you’re well-trained in the art of picking locks-”

“i get accidentally locked out of gigs sometimes / especially when the bouncers don’t believe i'm actually one of the performers / so yeah, i've had to do that once or twice”

“I’d hardly call that well-trained. Besides, this is a high-quality electronic lock with seventeen mechanisms. I highly doubt you could handle something like this, especially when you haven’t done the same research I have.”

“i’m just trying to help / no need to be like that”

“[()] Do not be affronted by the little man’s temper, Roixmr! I’m sure he’s only flustered that he can’t get the door open through FORCE OF STRENGTH and is forced to instead pretend he can pick locks! [()]”

“F- preten- _little man?”_

* * *

**BACK TO THE PRESENT**

* * *

You are once again the ALIEN, and you had just been comfortably dozing off in the backseat of the glidebuggy when you hear a loud _BOOM_ from the outside. Rubbing your eyes, you squint over at the nearest window and see four familiar figures scrambling through a hole in the prison block wall over to the submarine car, helped by a tunnel of air created by Kuprum. Some jostling and yelps of pain later, and the door slams shut behind them. Galekh is cradling one hand and looks kind of pissed-off, but nonetheless gives you a little wave as he settles in beside Tagora (who immediately sits on him). Nihkee and Chixie hop into the middle row beside them.

A familiar face pops up over the row of seats in front of you, greasepaint slightly smeared but otherwise intact. “sup lil dude” Marvus grins, leaning over to plant a big smooch right on the top of your head. You retaliate with a half-hearted flick between his eyes. “ow”

How did you even get down here? Last I heard, you and Boldir were investigating some moon stuff together.

“oh yea shits wild af. u got no clue whats been poppin off for realz, like shits gettin cosmically entangled an all that.”

…Which means what.

“not much lol XoD. reminds me, i gotta intro u 2 some1 later.”

IMMEDIATELY your new-friend-detected senses start tingling. Someone? Wants to meet you? Oh hell yeah, let’s fucking go.

“ay, not yet. these things need time.” The clown chuckles at that, for some reason. “yall just keep scootin ya bootins. imma need to get out here tho.”

Coincidentally, the submarine car just so happens to be passing one of the landdweller-enabled pathways. But wait, you say, where are you going? You aren’t coming with us?

“dw! ill be with u soon. ttyl and tbc, k?”

You’ll get captured again.

“ill just get myself out dis time. pinkyprong swear on it.”

You don’t really get what it is he needs to do, but he _did_ pinky swear, and as everyone knows, pinky swears are one of the most sacred bonds friends can make. Marvus takes his leave, striding down the street with such casualness that you’d never suspect he’d just been in prison. As you watch him go, you catch yourself wishing you’d asked more about this new friend he wants to introduce you to. Like, what are their hobbies? What’s their job? Taste in movies? Allergies? Political views? Anything to help you get the edge on this new friendmaking endeavor. You suppose all that will just have to wait until _after_ you nab the empress’ flagship.

“You know, with him gone, there’s enough space for you to sit now. You don’t _have_ to lie on the floor.” You hear Tagora say.

Then Tyzias’ voice, slightly muffled: “i like it dowwwwn here.”

“Suit yourself.”

The remainder of the drive passes in relative peace, save for a singular instance of Diemen swerving across two lanes at the sight of a hotdog stand. You and your clowncarful of friends (ironic considering the actual clown isn’t even in the car) drive toward the outskirts of the city. In that time, you finally get your promised and much-anticipated change of clothes: your favorite hoodie (from Mallek, in between him grappling with Kuprum for control of the car radio) and a new skirt (from Tyzias, who passes it up from where she’s still lying facedown on the floor, muttering something that ends in “stelsa”. You decide not to ask her where her matesprit is. From what little you’ve heard (via Galekh via Tagora via eavesdropping), you decide maybe you’ll talk to her about it later, when you’re not surrounded by other people. The skirt feels like whatever the Alternian equivalent of cotton is (foughtton? clawton?) and goes down to your mid-calf. The colors are more subtle than you’d expect from one of Stelsa’s designs- striped with black and various shades of grey- which, you realize, must have been the result of her taking your escape into consideration.

Damn. You _really_ hope Stelsa changes her mind.

Further from the city center is a huge lot, on which reside a number of closed metal hatches at least a mile wide, maybe more. The lot is surrounded by steep fences with mounted security cameras, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone around.

Diemen pulls the glidebuggy up just beyond the range of the cameras. “the hangars are underground; most of the engineers = landdwellers, so there should be air inside;” explains Mallek, tapping furiously on Kuprum’s phone as the device;s owner makes several fruitless grabs for it. “i can turn off the cameras; but only for a few minutes; if theyre off too long itll set off an alarm;”

He does so, and a few minutes later the submarine is past the gate and inside the lot. Inside, there turns out to be a deep tunnel set into the ground, just big enough for a vehicle such as yours. It descends into a tunnel, dark but for the occasional fluorescent light set into its walls. Your vehicle moves forward into it, steadily proceeding towards a growing light at the end of it. You squeeze Polypa’s hand.

When the sub emerges into the vehicle docking bay, any worries of an alarm going off at the presence of an extra vehicle are quickly dispersed. The hangar looks to be in a state of disarray; groups of trolls in identical uniforms stand in small clusters, the sounds of many loud voices overlapping echoing through the massive building. At Mallek’s silent direction from the passenger seat, Diemen moves the sub into an empty spot in the dock and connects the vehicle to the waiting socket.

You take a peek out one of the windows, and holy _shit_. The ceiling of the hangar looks to rival the size of the royal palace threefold, and the vehicles lined up in it are just as imposing. The cherry-red monstrosity that takes up half the space looks like it could crush a good chunk of the city of Thrashthrust, were it to ever land there (and based on what you know of the ruler, it could very well happen). You just hope the people of Earth won’t be too freaked by it. Obviously they _will_ be, but hopefully that percentage will be overruled by the percentage who think it’s really freaking cool, because it _is._

There’s a rustle of fabric. You turn to see Polypa pulling a technician’s uniform similar those worn by the staff outside out from under her seat. “alright * let’s see what’s going on out there *|”

How did you even get that before we came down here?

To your surprise and delight, a small flush works its way into her cheeks. “i did my research * obviously * and i do own a sewing machine *|”

It makes sense that an assassin would have a means of making disguises, but you’re still agog at this new information. You can _sew??_ Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Just how talented _are_ you? That outfit looks perfect!

“this is why i didn’t bring it up *|” she mutters as she pulls the jumpsuit on. Just before she pulls on a cap to hide her face, you get a glimpse of a tiny smile. Then she’s gone, stepping out onto the dock and blending into the crowd with well-practised ease. You lose sight of her within seconds.

When she returns, it’s with a look of concern and confusion wrinkling her brow. “something’s up *|” she says.

“they knowwww wwwwe’re here?”

Polypa shakes her head, “no * news from the courtblock hasn’t reached here yet * it’s something else * i really don’t know if we can use it to our advantage yet * but we might be able to if nothing else changes *|”

Use…what to our advantage?

“the helmsman is missing *|”

* * *

You are now KARAKO PIEROT, and you think you’re kind of lost.

Normally, that’s fine and all. Getting lost can be fun when you’re exploring! Though, it does worry your lusus when you take longer getting home.

But even when you’re lost, it’s usually in the woods, and you _know _the woods. Even if you’re not on one of your paths, you can find a path that _leads _to one of your paths, and then you’re found again. This isn’t the woods, though. This maze is not one of bark and brush, but one of dented steel corridors and stinging fluorescence. You don’t know this place. Your new friend does, though, and you’re starting to think he _might_ not be the sort of friend your lusus would approve of. Now, if only you could find him…

You’ve been wandering around the building for what feels like ages now. You’re pretty sure no one’s come looking for you yet. As far as escaping from grubsitters goes, this was hardly a challenge, especially compared to someone like Lynera. Like, a locked door? Really? At least stack a couple of boulders in front of it or something.

As you wander down another intersection, you hear footsteps headed your way. You scamper behind a corner and wait. A few seconds later, two sets of booted legs go clomping by, their owners deep in conversation.

“-see the new recruit the grand one 🅱rought aboard?”

“WHAT, the STUNTED one? DIDN’T those HORNS look KIND of LIKE….”

“yeah, a little 🅱it, right?”

Luckily for you, they pass without spotting you. Whew! You don’t really want to have to go back to that first room. The people there were really nice, but everyone was just hooting and hollering about soda and clowns and stuff, and all the sounds and smells made your pan hurt after a while.

You wander around for a bit, looking for an exit. Then, at the end of a particularly long hallway, you see it- a set of doors marked with your new friend’s sign. _That_ must be where he went! You run up to them and knock on the door a few times, to be polite.

No answer. You knock three, four, five times more, but there’s no sound. It’s beginning to get really frustrating. You _need_ to get a ride home soon if you want to make it back to the caverns in time for curfew! Maybe your friend is asleep or something?

There’s a keypad next to the door. If you stand on your tiptoes and extend your arm as high as it can go, you can _just_ brush the bottom of the panel. Hmph. Looking around, you spot a trash can not too far away. With some effort, you manage to drag it over and climb atop it to reach the panel.

There’s a lot of buttons, all in different colors, and a single ENTER key at the bottom. Hmmm. It can’t be too tricky, right? Like, if it were you, you’d just…

You hit the ENTER key without pressing anything else, and the doors slide open.

The inside of the room is dark and cavernous, save for a faint green glow in the corner. You tiptoe inside and squint at the glowing shape. At first glance, it looks like a recuperacoon, but as you get closer, the shade of green is a little darker than usual sopor. It reminds you of the sopor that Bronya makes whenever someone gets hurt really bad. “The extra minerals enhance the healing properties and accelerate the recovery process”, she’d explained, matter-off-factly ripping open some packets of powder and dumping them into a large basin of sopor, using a large pole to mix them all together. “If something really bad happens while I’m not here, they’ll be in the cabinet on the left, okay?”

Did your friend get hurt somehow without telling you? Forgoing any secrecy, you hurry over to the side of the ‘coon and peer inside.

Lying beneath the surface of the sopor is an unfamiliar troll. They’re dressed in a tattered black and yellow uniform, which must have been from a long time ago, because it doesn’t seem to fit their bony frame. What’s weird about them is that there’re all these purple wires sticking out from their arms and legs and torso, most of which are ripped at the ends. Who could this be?

As you look at them, you see the person’s eyes flicker slowly open, one blue, one red. They peer dully up at you through the sopor. You give them your best grin and a wave.

“Honk!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Though, I am not so hopeful as to believe it is indeed the last.[return to text]
> 
> 2\. The fact that I acquired said skills a week ago from reading a book is inconsequential. It’s still the safer alternative. [return to text]
> 
> 3\. I don’t see why that’s an issue or anything, though. Just because I don’t “get” certain references isn’t going to affect others’ perceptions of me. (…Is it? Nevermind.) [return to text]
> 
> 4\. And here I thought I’d escaped this kind of intra-caste peer pressure when I was a grub. This might just be the worst night of my life. [return to text]
> 
> 5\. Please just take a hint already. I really can’t work under this kind of pressure. [return to text]


	51. Of Psychic Tricks and Sidequest Antics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for recreational drug and alcohol use (mentioned) and the loss of a parental figure (mentioned), both in the Diemen section.

Your name is DIEMEN XICALI and you feel kind of overwhelmed right now, honestly.

You’ve never been one for regrets and second thoughts. In your experience, the less you think about your actual circumstances, the better. A lot of people in your life consider you an optimist, and you’re inclined to agree, but hey, being to keep that up takes actual work, ya know. It takes layers and layers of willful ignorance and repression to get on the level of consistent positivity _you’ve_ maintained these past couple of sweeps.

But it’s not perfect! Things _do_ sometimes get to you, even as you try to go with the flow and narrow your focus to your next meal and not the yawning abyss that is your future as a subject of the Empire. It’s not like thinking about it would change anything, anyways. Like, sure, you’d probably have to face it sooner or later, but why bother trying to find ways to avoid it? Right?

Except that now you _do_ have a way out, and you have literally nothing to do in the world but think about it. And think about it. Aaaand think about it.

Here’s the thing. When your good buddy Mallek called you at the crack of moonrise and asked if you wanted to leave the Empire forever, you were totally on board. Even packed your spare sock and everything. But crack-of-nightfall decisions are one thing and sitting in a submarine parked in the Empress’ royal hangar bay listening to everyone argue about how you’re going to steal a ship is another. It’s only now starting to sink in that you’re _actually _leaving this place. That in just a matter of minutes or hours, you might actually be on one of those behemoths and leaving Alternia far in the distance, possibly forever. Wild.

Weirder than that, though, is that you don’t know that if actually feel like going.

Obviously, things aren’t great for you on Alternia. They’ve _been_ not-great for perigees and perigees now, since the night you lost both your home and your lusus in one fiery swoop. What followed was a rough time that saw you drifting from place to place, drowning everything you’d wanted to forget in drugs, alcohol, and greasy food. You’d see your old friends from the neighborhood sometimes, usually at parties. The chemically-induced haze blurred all the faces together, but you could always recognize them from the concern in their eyes when they looked at you. In _that_ state, the most you could do was blink stupidly through their questions and wait until they stopped talking, then lock yourself in the nearest bathroom until the party was over and you could sleep off the worst of the high in the nearest shrub. Good times, you’d say, if you actually remembered what happened in them half the time. The most you _can_ remember is a rancid taste in your mouth, too-loud music vibrating your skull, the eyes of a hot jadeblood who let you paint his nails once, little bits and pieces like that. Yeah, real good times.

But then things started to change. That little sewer adventure with the alien set you up with enough meat to keep you fed for _wipes,_ enough that you stopped going to as many parties to get free food_._ Less partying meant less chances to buy drugs, so you naturally started to wean off them a little, though not totally. Then, after Mallek hired you that one time, the two of you hit it off as pals, and soon you had a semi-stable income just from helping him out on jobs. He’d offered to let you stay over, too, but at the time, you’d turned him down. There just didn’t seem to be a point. You kept hanging out with him, though, and being able to talk to somebody else about random stuff- without them bringing up your destroyed hive, or your lusus- had been a nice change. You’ve considered telling him, but there never seemed to be a good time.

You even managed to get yourself a place to stay, eventually. Charun was a pretty odd roommate, and to this day you still have no idea if they’re actually _cool_ with you staying over; they’d kind of just mumbled some stuff and ambled off, only to return with a busted recuperacoon. From the amount of pegs and paint stains still on it, you’d guess that they probably had to dismantle some of their “art” to obtain it for you. The thought of that alarmed you, initially- you hadn’t meant to ruin the artist’s work, geez- but now you’re just grateful. The first day under sopor, after countless wipes of daymares only barely scrubbed out by the lingering influence of the drugs, had been the best sleep you’ve ever gotten, ever.

Then you’d met _him._

When you first bumped into him at Ardata’s- before you were off the streets, but after the alien- you’d been too hungry to see anything but the delectable sausages being juggled between his palms. Then, suddenly, the plump meat products had stopped moving. You gaze had snapped downward to see a painted face smiling almost shyly at you, both hands full of hotdogs. And when he offered you one, well…that had been _it. _You’d snacked and talked with him the rest of the night, right until the sun was well over the horizon and you’d both had to borrow a suncloak in order to get home. (Of course, of _course_ there was only one, and you’d had to share, drunkenly bumping against each other and giggling at nothing at all as you walked towards the bus stop together.) That was almost two perigees ago.

Three nights ago, he told you he was red for you.

Which, you have to admit, was a surprise. Sure, you’d had a couple of embarrassing nightdreams here and there, but you didn’t think anything like that would actually _happen_ between the two of you. It was a lot to take in. You’d asked him to give you some more time, and he’d given it to you.

And now you’re _here_, so close to getting off the stupid planet that killed your dad, and it’s all you can think about. Is that selfish, you wonder, to be more worried about whether you’ll get to confess to a maybe-quadrantmate than you are about escaping this awful empire? Is it foolish? Is it asinine? Yes to all of those, probably. In spite of literally everything, you can still hear that stupid, optimistic part of you, telling you it’s _fine,_ you can _absolutely_ go on living the way you have and still be fine, nothing _bad_ is _ever_ going to happen.

You push that part of you aside for once. That mentality’s kept you going through a lot of rough times, but that’s not what you need right now.

You give yourself a good smack on the forehead to clear those thoughts and turn your attention back to your surroundings. Everyone’s still arguing, of course, though it’s less because of disagreements and more because of people needing to get their two caegars in. For instance, the glasses guy is sub-footnoting and keeps adding more footnotes the more he’s cut off by his kismesis. The alien is trying to show they’re paying attention to his inputs in order to placate him, and gives you a tired but happy little smile when you catch their eye. You mentally remind yourself to persuade whoever’s steering later to stop the ship near a junk food place, STAT. It’s what they deserve.

“we only have the one uniform *|” the oliveblood is explaining, rubbing her eyes. Which is understandable, considering it’s like, early evening and she was awake for almost twenty-four full hours before this. “even with that * the whole place is on high alert * so just walking up and trying to take a ship won’t work *|”

Kuprum grins and rubs his hands together, tiny sparks leaping from his palms as he fails not to show his excitement. “>guess we’re on plan b huh? >well >if they want a helm >lets give them one alright”

“you dont look anything like an adult though;” Mallek points out, dryly. “so if youre looking to imitate them; that = not going to work;”

The gold-blooded hacker twists around to glare at the cerlueanblood squashed into the passenger’s-side seat next to him (they couldn’t agree who should sit there). “>says you >besides >why don’t you do something since you have the superior hacking skills APPARENTLY”

Mallek just shrugs, “nope; not much i can do here besides like; making the lights flicker spookily or some shit; and that = _if _theyre connected to a computer system within range…;”

Spooky, huh?

“(| I could probably do something like that. |)” You say, and immediately every pair of eyes turns to you. The alien leans forward in their seat, eyes gleaming: You _can?_

You don’t blame them not knowing, honestly; rustblood psychic powers aren’t things that get talked about that often, what with them being seen as creepy by most. You give the others a quick rundown: you have pretty strong telekinesis, though you can only really focus on one thing at a time. However, putting out lights, even huge industrial ones like the ones in the hangar? Easy. Plus, Polypa points out, it would be a lot less conspicuous than if either of the goldbloods did it; compared to the bright bursts of light given off by even the most minor psionic exertions, rustblood telekinesis has very little in terms of visuals, save for a faint aura around both the user and the object they’re influencing.

“||| But will the lights be enough of a distraction? |||” muses Azdaja. “||| It’ll only daze everyone for a couple seconds, before their eyes adjust to the dark. |||”

You then decide that now’s a good time to bring up your ability to call the spirits of the dead.

WHAT_,_ the alien shrieks. YOU CAN DO _WHAT??_

“(| I mean, yeah? But I’ve never really done it for anything like this before. |)” You give them a quick rundown: basically, if you expend a good chunk of your energy, you can bring out the spirits of trolls who’ve died near this place, or who were closely tied to this place. You have NO IDEA how many that’ll actually be, but ay, it’s worth a shot.

You don’t mention that the last time you used this was to try and see your dad again.

(You’d almost done it, too. But when you’d seen the beginnings of his outline appear before you, you’d panicked and stopped the summoning. You don’t think you could have faced him again, or _whatever_ was left of him. Spirits didn’t tend to linger around intact, not unless they had a good reason to.)

You feel a hand on your shoulder, light, hesitant, and look up to see Mallek. He’s making a complicated expression.

“are you gonna be okay;” he says, quietly, even though the others have moved past your explanation and are talking amongst themselves again.

“(| Huh? why wouldn’t I be? |)” You didn’t… tell him, did you? …Right?

Mallek shifts a little closer to you, ignoring Kuprum’s griping. He looks awkward, but keeps going: “idk man it = just…; you sounded kinda flat there, like you didn’t want to do it; and that = fine, we can figure something else out;”

Aw, bro, you dumb sap. “(| No, I want to. |)”

You look out at the hangar, at the huge glowing strips of light illuminating it from above, and concentrate.

People have told you that goldblood psionics feel kind of like the aftermath of downing a gallon of an energy drink; stimulating, electric, overwhelmingly powerful. To you, using psychic power has always felt more like the feeling you get after waking up from a deep sleep. It feels like floating, weightless, on the boundary between dreams and the waking world, mind empty and yet calm and clear at the same time. Finding that mental state can be tricky at first, but once you’ve figured it out, it gets a lot easier. Hopefully you’re not too out-of-practice.

You latch you attention onto the nearest light and focus, shutting everything else out. At first, it doesn’t feel like anything’s happening; then, you hear a flurry of whispers from the others and realize that the strip of light directly above the vehicle bay has silently gone out. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like any of the workers have noticed. Ignoring a painful twinge in your left temple, you quickly extend your focus and your energy towards the other bulbs; it turns out to take a good deal of effort to put them out without just exploding them, which might cause a panic too soon.

Now comes the hard part. In the split second before the last overhead light sputters and goes out, you reverse your focus to the planet below, pushing and pushing your consciousness deeper into the furrows of the ground, searching for remnants, fragments, anything that might have the memory of a death tied to it. Nothing. You let your mind worm its way deeper into the crushing dark. Suddenly you hit something- a compressed mass of spiritual energy, tangled around some huge chunks of metal buried deep beneath the sea floor. Passengers from a failed takeoff, perhaps? Whatever it is, it’s exactly what you need.

In your mind’s eye you extend you powers toward them and _pull_ upward, dragging the fused-together mass of pain and fear and terror up, up, up towards the surface, but they’re so heavy and it’s so far to go, you don’t you if you’re going to make it. You can hear the spirits’ voices now, angry and manifold, furious at having been pulled from their grave. Their furious shrieks fill your thinkpan, crowding it, making it hard to focus on the summons. Just a little bit further-

A hand, shockingly solid, lands on your shoulder and shakes you, pulling you violently out from what must have been dozens of miles beneath the planet’s surface. “—iemen, come on, we have to go;”

“(| Whuh? |)” You blink a few times, disoriented by both the lingering daze and the surrounding darkness. When your vision adjusts, you see that the others have all gone, leaving just you and Mallek in the sub. “(| Where’d everybody…? |)”

“outside; your thing worked; but we have to get going fucking asap;”

The minute the two of you stumble outside the glidebuggy and into the darkened hangar, the need to move becomes apparent; the entire room is full of screams and- you can tell without even seeing them- incredibly pissed-off ghosts. Welp.

The two of you immediately make a break for the aircraft. The Empress’ flagship is the nearest, and as you sprint towards it, you see the others running for the lowered entry ramp. Somehow you all manage to get in without getting snagged by a ghost, and the minute you’re inside someone slams a wall panel and shuts the entrance. The ramp swings upwards and closes without a sound.

So, uh, the alien gets out between pants; are ghosts…you know…dangerous?

You have to pause and think about that, during which interval most of the group looks increasingly nervous.

“(| Yeah, but they were all pretty much just mad at _me_ for summoning them like, so they’re probably more busy looking for me than actually killing the people out there! |)” you conclude.

Another pause.

“there wwwwill probably be sommmme adult trolls left on the ship.” Points out Tyzias. “wwwwe should get mmmmoving.”

The ship was _very_ clearly designed for adults based on the sheer size of the hallway you’re all in, though some of it is hidden in shadow; the area is lit only by a thin strip of red light running along the base of the walls, casting an eerie glow over everything. “emergency power *|” mutters Polypa, waving the lot of you along. “these older ships don’t have great stores of backup power * the helm is relied on for a lot of the basic functions *|”

“so no working cameras EITHER?” Konyyl looks a bit disappointed. “that’s so EASY.”

Through some dumb stroke of luck (or, as your maybe-matesprite would call it, a miracle) you manage not to run into any adults on their way down to the engine room. Polypa and Tegiri lead the way, having grabbed the ship’s schematics during their time undercover. Upon reaching the seemingly-locked door, the sword-wielding legislacerator volunteers to slice it open, leading to a minutes-long argument between him, Konyyl, Nihkee, and Azdaja over the most strategic and inconspicuous way to force it open. The argument is brought to a _very_ anticlimactic halt when Chixie points out that the panel next to the door is short-circuited, just like the lights were, and that you can literally just walk through the door. Which you all do, some looking more embarrassed than others.

The sight that awaits you in the engine room takes you all aback, even Kuprum, who’s been positively shaking with excitement the whole way down there. A mass of pink cables hangs in the center of the room, threading all across the room’s walls and into hundreds of sockets. Right in the center of them is a gaping hole. Some of the cables are hanging detached, whereas others have simply been ripped at the ends.

Before anyone else can say or do anything, Kuprum turns, grins, says “>seeya”, and walks confidently towards it.

Mallek makes a noise and darts forward to stop him. “are you- you cant just do that; we need to find you a flight suit with actual sockets; you cant just let those plug directly into you;”

Kuprum’s hand stalls in reaching for the nearest intact cable. “>oh no shit? >damn thanks lol” He turns back to your group. Or tries to, anyways.

What happens next is so fast that you very nearly miss it. As Kuprum’s hand begins to pull away from the cable, you could swear you see it _writhe_. That split-second observation is the only warning you get before the cable shoots forward and sinks into the back of Kuprum’s hand with a _squelch_.

The goldblood yelps in pain and instinctively goes to jerk his hand away, to no avail. Behind him, the rest of the intact cables whirr to life.

* * *

You name is REMELE NAMAAQ, and tonight is _your_ night.

The gallery opening was a smashing success. The guests ooed and aaed at your works, and you received a good amount of positive attention for your theme, “Awakening: The Birth of an Artistic Soul”. The catering and decorations you ordered were _très magnifique, _complimenting the works perfectly. All in all, a perfect event.

All perfect, that is, if not for the grubby preteen in that’s been skulking around the last hour or so, frowning at all the paintings. You’d guess from her smock that she’s a student of the arts as well, if not for the metallic odor that surrounds her. Blood as paint? How crude, how wholly unoriginal. On top of that, you she’s beginning to ward off your guests. Something must be done.

You quietly follow the little indigoblood as she ambles around the gallery, intending to quietly remove her so as not to have to call security drones and make a fuss. However, she proves elusive, weaving here and there, which forces you to navigate around visitors and their subsequent greetings and questions. You’re relieved when she changes directions and walks directly into…a backroom? Quelle surprise. A mistake, or could she be intending to steal your equipment?

Not wanting to take that risk, you hurry inside.

You are confused to find yourself alone in the room. The only other occupants are the spare art materials, some cleaning supplies, and, tucked behind a crate of frames, your messenger bag, which looks to be untouched. So where did she-?

Suddenly your instincts flare, hairs standing out on the back of your arms and neck, and you spin around just in time to see the girl from earlier leap off the nearest shelf directly towards you, axe raised overhead. Ah. There she is.

You wait until she’s nearly on you to duck and roll to the side towards where your bag is. Still in a crouching position, you reach behind you and snag a broom from where it’s leaning against the wall. You have knives on you, because of _course_ you do, but those won’t be handy until you’re in close quarters.

The indigoblood unceremoniously smacks into the floor, but is up and undamaged in just a few seconds, looking only faintly annoyed. When she sees you crouched on the ground, broom held at the ready, she huffs. “do youu _mind_?”

“I think I very much _would_, petite fille.” You retort, shifting your weight slightly so as not to strain your knees. “You must be new to the art scene if you thinque _this_ is the best way to off your competitors. Don’t you know publique humiliation is the way to go?”

The girl stares at you a moment, shocked. Then she bursts out laughing.

“_competitor?”_ she all but shrieks, somehow managing to hold her sides and also keep hold of her axe. “youu’ve got to be _kidding_ me! _that’s_ what youu- youur art is like, _so_ bad. what are those shapes even suupposed to-” Another fit of giggles overtakes her.

Your own surprise turns quickly to anger. “_What_ did you say about my art, you little amateur?”

“there’s nothing _to_ say. it just suucks!”

“And what have _you_ made, huh?”

She stops laughing long enough to look a touch embarrassed, and then the annoyance returns. “none of youur buusiness.”

Hah! Another hypocrite. Well, as entertaining as this has been, you need to start closing up the gallery soon. You straighten up, still holding the broom, just in case. “Come baque to criticize me once you’ve got something of your own to compare to, kid.”

“i didn’t _come_ here to criticize youu!” the indigo girl yells, stamping her foot. “i came here to kidnap youu! as a favor to a friend!” She hefts her single-sided axe once more, the blade faced away from you. “now hold still!”

* * *

Boldir Lamati stands in a graveyard.

She stays, as she is wont to do, in the shadows. Her gray-clad form is nearly indiscernible from the shadows that pool beneath the ancient tree she stands under, the occasional rustle of her coat masked by the rustling of dead leaves in the breeze. She tracks a few of them, idly, as they sail away from the tree and whirl through the air, before turning her attention back to the only other living occupant of the Happy Absence Pit Park.

The gravedigger has seen better days. Exhaustion has carved deep lines beneath his bulb-sockets, and the movements of his limbs as he goes to dug yet another hole are crooked, unnatural. Like a puppet being jerked on its strings, she would think, if only she didn’t know better.

Stretching out to the left of the gravedigger is a line of open graves, uniform in length and width. Depth too, she’d assume, if she was in any real hurry to check. She’s not.

She looks at him again, this time without her normal eyes. What she sees is both what she feared and expected- strings, thin and glowing bright white. Her heart freezes for a moment.

Then, as she looks closer, she sees the strings aren’t connected to anything. They’re tangled painfully around the other troll’s limbs, but there’s no sign of a puppeteer, only what remains. It could be, she reasons, that the strings are so powerful on their own that the man on the moon doesn’t even need to be controlling them for them to work. But that’s not his style, is it? He’s too neat about everything to leave his literal loose ends untied like this.

Which leads her to a couple of obvious solutions: one, the moon man is dead and gone, but his source of _power_ isn’t, and that’s why these strings of his haven’t fully dissolved. The other option is that the guy’s still around and simply doesn’t have the strength to fix up his little unfinished projects, but that doesn’t quite feel right either. Whatever the case, she _needs _to find a way to get those strings off him safely, him and anyone else the puppeteer messed with.

She takes the shot- and misses.

Just before she aims the tranquilizer gun, she catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye- a figure, stood on the edge of the property, just inside the fence. Watching _her_, somehow, despite the distance and her near-flawless camouflage. When the figure sees her seeing them, they begin to walk over to the tree, their pace leisurely.

Boldir raises the gun again. Hesitates. Lowers it. Lets the other approach.

“isn’t this place beautiful?” the goddess smiles.

The oliveblood doesn’t respond. She’s not sure how.

“you should really head back, you know.” The other troll looks in the direction of Outglut, then back to Boldir. “the good part’s almost over, and there’s not really anything you can do here.”

“(nothing?)”

“well, maybe 0_0” She shrugs. “it could take a while, though, and you're almost out of time.”

“(are you…)” She swallows hard, tongue darting out to wet her lips before responding. “(are you the one who’s going to end this?)”

“no :) that’s not really up to me. you really should hurry, though. she’s waiting at the safe place for you, but she might not wait much longer.”

Boldir looks like she wants to say something more. She doesn’t. The detective nods, once, then turns and scurries hastily towards the border of the graveyard without looking back.

When she’s gone, the goddess turns back towards the gravedigger. Her expression turns grave (get it? 0_o) and she walks towards him, her hands beginning to shimmer as she does so. With a wave of a hand, he freezes in place mid-shovel. “now, let’s see what’s the matter with _you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! *dabs ineffectually, cracking both my elbows* I start classes tomorrow! So, the next chapter will up in two weeks. Thanks for your understanding!


	52. Of Reminisces and Rebirth

You are dreaming.

Some part of you knows this, of course. You could hardly fail to notice how impossible this all is, even _if_ you were of the sort predisposed to fantasize, which, of course, you aren’t. You never were very good at distracting yourself from the harshness of reality, were you? Always grating on your senses, pushing and pulling at you, everything always too much. It’s a rare and strange thing that you should find yourself caught in the folds of a dream.

Stranger still is the fact that this could even be possible. You haven’t been in your own head for a long, long time now. The places where dreams and visions once resided, fleeting and feeble though they were, have long been replaced with an endless stream of commands, clicking past one-by-one in their thousands, accompanied by the ever-present drain. You hardly perceive it even as _that_ anymore. The drain has been so constant for so long that you’ve stopped noticing it, only the waves of cold that wrack your body whenever the engines take a bit too much. Which is often.

You don’t feel that cold now. A thing which, that same part of your mind muses, is strange. That part of you is silenced, however, for you are too preoccupied now with the passionate fire in your best friend’s eyes, brighter even than the campfire around which you sit, as he speaks his new world into being.

For once, there are no crowds, no ruckus, no huddles of fervent believers listening hungrily for his next words. No, the words he speaks now are for you, and only you. The mutant’s eyes are like glowing coals in the firelight, emanating a warmth you can feel in your very bones.

Or maybe that’s just the fire. You spot a couple of sizzling embers settle on the end of your friend’s cloak where it pools in the dust and expend a tiny spark of your power to flick them away. It wouldn’t be the first time he got so caught up in his speech that he didn’t realize his clothes were burning.

A soft rustle in the trees off to your left. You turn your head in time to see Meu emerge from the tree line, dragging the body of some large animal in her teeth and claws. What remains of the creature’s tusks score two grooves in the dirt with each step she takes, and as she draws closer, you see that one of her bracelets has two new trophies swinging from the braided thread. She dumps the corpse by the fire, a satisfied growl rumbling from deep in her throat. The she cleans the blood from her paws and muzzle and comes around to join you.

She drops a kiss to Kankri’s brow- to which he doesn’t pause his speech, but _do_ you see a fond smile tug at his lips- and settles beside you to listen to him monologue, carelessly flinging her head and torso across your lap. You automatically go to pet the back of her head, idly untangling the knots and snarls as you nod along to the lecture.

Between the heat of the fire and the company, you’re warmer than you’ve ever been. You haven’t felt this kind of warmth since…since…

You are back in the engine room.

It’s still early enough that you can still feel your body, and every drain of energy from it burns like it’s the first time. Your mouth is numb, your tongue heavy; you drag it along the line of your teeth to feel the rounded nubs where the fangs have been forcibly dulled. Right, you remember now. You kept biting at your mouth whenever the pain was too much. The engineers had been afraid you’d tear your own lips off.

You wish you’d had the strength to laugh in their faces for worrying over something so trivial. She’d find a way to use you no matter what.

The ship is in standby, hovering over some poor planet no doubt in the process of being terrorized by the ground troops currently deployed. Which means a brief reprieve for you, or at least until they resort to using the ship’s cannons to prove your point. You drift in and out of a fitful sleep, too uncomfortable in your current position strung up in the engine room to get some real rest but too exhausted to keep your eyes open. The engine room is cold. Your pilot suit is only insulated so as to preserve psionic energy; it does little against the chill that snakes around your emaciated limbs.

A shadow falls over you, and suddenly warmth blossoms across your face. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve been struck, another punishment for daring to reach the end of a life cycle that should have reached its natural cessation aeons ago. It wouldn’t be the first time Meenah had to force you back to life after dying in your sleep.

But no, you remain in the present, and for once, no fresh pain comes with it. Instead you register the feeling of fingers brushing against your face, with a gentleness that is almost painful after so many years without. Instinctively you lean into the touch, the warmth seeming to emanate from the one point of contact throughout your tired, aching body. The other’s hand slowly moves to cradle the side of your head, thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone, with no force nor violence behind it. It’s wonderful.

With some effort, you tilt your head upwards and squint through broken goggles up at a familiar painted face, uncharacteristically solemn for once.

You should have known he would come to visit you eventually. Though, you would have thought it’d be sooner. It’s been, what, how many sweeps now? More than enough time for him to prepare some boastful speech.

Only he doesn’t speak. He only looks at you, eyes heavy with some indescribable emotion. This close, you can count the first creases of age beneath cracking greasepaint, can hear each breath as it rises and falls. It looks as though he’s about to say something.

Then, suddenly, the hand falls away, and the subjuggulator turns to leave the engine room without a word.

You shudder in the absence of the meager warmth that touch had provided. Without thinking you strain against the cables that hold you in place, as though you could reach out and pull the other back.

Bad idea. At the slightest sign of resistance, the defense mechanisms come whirring to life, sending painful jolts of electricity down your limbs, intensifying the more you thrash and scream and plead. Several small, needle-tipped cables plunge into the back of your neck, just above the large cable in the socket at the tip of his spine, and inject something that slips into your veins like ice and turns your thinkpan sluggish and heavy within seconds. Already you can feel your consciousness slipping away.

Through flickering sight, you can make out an approaching silhouette, one with a familiar wild shock of hair and a pair of sharp, curving horns protruding straight upwards. _So you came back, asshole, _you wantsto say, but your jaw is gritted too tightly shut to get the words out.

The figure says nothing, but you feel two hands settle upon your shoulders, curling into the fabric of the flight suit. You can feel yourself being pulled forward, just a little at first, then more forcefully, until you can feel the tension in your restraints. Panic rises in your chest, because the cables are all still plugged in, and if this person tries to move you they’ll tear you apart, they’ll rip you, kill you, you’ll—

You thrash wildly and are surprised to find yourself facing little to no resistance. Restraints that have held you for sweeps suddenly melt away like liquid. The hands on your shoulders disappear, and you lurch forward, suddenly untethered and unprepared for how to deal with it. Your eyes fly open and immediately your senses are assaulted with a barrage of light and color, the sensation of air against your ganderbulbs sudden and shocking. You slam them shut, grimacing.

After some time, when the throbbing pain in your thinkpan has subsided somewhat, you hesitantly crack one eye open, then the other, to see…green…?

_Blood, _some morbid part of your pan supplies, but you shake that notion away, blinking several times to get a better look. (Your broken goggles are missing, leaving your face strangely bare; you don’t need to see yourself to know that there are deep lines around your eyes and across the sides of your face from where they once were.) You blink slowly a few times at your immediate surroundings. You’re sitting upright in a shallow pool- no, a _recuperacoon._ Dark green sopor slime clings to the ancient flight suit you still wear, and you can tell without checking that all the cables have been removed. Some of the ports are still stinging, but whatever was in the sopor must have worked, because there aren’t any gaping wounds. However, you still feel incredibly weak, weak enough that you consider just flopping back into the slime and not questioning how it is you got here.

A soft scraping noise. You’re not alone here. Quickly your gaze snaps towards the source of the sound and your bloodpusher stops dead at the sight of a very familiar set of horns.

Except…no, they’re not. The horns sticking up from behind the foot of the ‘coon are far too small, practically miniature. And his aren’t striped, which these are.

You realize your pulse has elevated slightly from panic and attempt a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. You immediately choke and break out into a painful coughing fit, of course, because that’s just the way your life works.

As the worst of it begins to die down (i.e. your bellowsacs finally remember to do their fucking job), you look up to see that the little pair of oddly familiar horns has been accompanied by a head of messy black hair and bright, shining round eyes, peering at you over the ‘coon’s edge.

“honk?” it says, of all things.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. Actually, you’re not even sure you _can;_ your throat is so dry that you’re sure speaking one word would just send you into another fit. So you kind of just sit there and look at it, looking at you, looking at it.

Just before you go right back to sleep, the pair of eyes disappears and then reappears when what now appears to be a tiny troll comes around the side of the recuperacoon to get a closer look at you. You realize that they weren’t hiding, just then- they literally just weren’t taller than the side of the ‘coon. They honk conversationally at you, to which you have no response, because you honestly have no idea what any of it means.

Eventually they get frustrated, face turning bright indigo, but it quickly gives way to a resignation that suggests they’re used to not being understood. They wander away from your cocoonside and walk around the room, poking at this and that. Which leads you to wondering where exactly it is you’ve ended up. Following the little troll’s lead, your eyes wander across the rather spacious ship’s cabin, eventually alighting on a large, tattered banner with a familiar sign across it.

You aren’t even surprised at this point. If you are, you’re far too tired of everything to deal with that right now. So yeah, okay, your maybe-not-really-moirail apparently decided _now_ was the best fucking time to be a hero, which is great except it’s been _this_ long and, if you’re remembering correctly, the planet is in some sort of invasion crisis. Mee- _The Empress_ made the urgency of the situation pretty damn clear when she forced you to push your husk of a body past its limits to get the ship back there in just a few short wipes. If the ship had been any further out at the time, it probably would have killed you instantly. As it was, it was more like just another rough night. You should be dead, of course, but as per usual, forces have conspired to keep your sorry sack of bones upright for longer than necessary.

Only _this_ time, you have the power to make it everybody else’s problem.

You pull one arm free from the slime and experimentally try to summon a bit of your power. At first, you feel nothing, and for a moment you think _wow, guess there was a limit to how much they could take after all; a real shame it didn’t run out while the fleet was in the middle of a battle and under fire._

A familiar prickling starts behind your eyes, almost unnoticeably at first, then intensifying. You grapple with it for a few minutes, clumsily trying to bring it to a manageable level without blowing yourself up, because it’s been sweeps and your automatic control of psionics is basically shot. After several long, agonizing minutes, you manage to control the flow of energy enough to redirect them to your hand and surround it in a flickering aura of bolts. As you do so, you feel strength returning to your brittle limbs, more than a day in sopor could ever give you, and more than anything you want to use it. To have it feel like _yours_ again. You have no intention of using them for anyone else’s sake, never again.

Your name is MITUNA CAPTOR, and you’re going to fuck some shit up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time, to get back into the swing of things.
> 
> Hey, all! Uni has been straightforwardly kicking my ass these past couple of weeks, so updates might be a bit more sporadic from here on out. Hope y'all are doing well.


	53. Of Synthesis and Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hey there, folks! This semester of uni is really giving me a lot to deal with right now, plus a couple of other things, so this fic will be updated VERY sporadically, i.e. whenever I have an official break from classes. Thanks so much for your understanding. We’re basically in the final act, now, and there isn’t much farther to go; it just takes a while to wrap up all the loose ends.

You are the beating heart of a monster you’ve dreamed of becoming since the day you hatched. To say that this is a dream come true would be a fallacy, for that would imply that your childhood fantasies were a worthy reflection of the reality now made manifest. There is nothing comparable to this. The second-closest is probably that one time you ate a mixture of mind honey and hot sauce on a dare, which, in itself, had some _pretty_ epic results, but this is epic on an entirely different scale.

For one thing, your consciousness has expanded far outside your original form to encompass the massive shape of the imperial flagship. If your mind was still in your body, you think you’d probably feel a lurch of nausea as your pan reels from the sensation of suddenly being hurled into an endless maze of circuitry that must run for _at least_ a couple of miles. It doesn’t really hurt, it just feels- weird. Like everything is too tight and close but also too big and open at the same time. Like when you’re stretching at a weird angle and suddenly something _shifts_ in a way it’s not supposed to and sends a thrum of fear up your spine, except everything feels that way.

Once the initial shock of it settles, you can feel your mind beginning to settle more comfortably into the system. Okay, _not_ comfortably, but…more securely, yeah, that’s the word. Then, for a couple of minutes, nothing.

…

Is this really _it_? Did the battery port being all fucky and torn up completely break the circuit? Damn, that sucks. And here you were super looking forward to this. All you can really _feel_ is sort of cold and numb and the beginnings of a headache, but that’s kind of underwhelming compared to—

compared to—

y—

The building headache at the back of your thinkpan explodes. White-hot fire races along every neuron, leaping from synapse to synapse, devouring, eviscerating. 

_It hurts_, you want to think, but trying for form even that thought invites another rolling wave of fire. If you could still feel _anything_ in your original body, you’d probably be screaming.

Then, just like that, it’s over.

The feeling that had completely overtaken your senses evaporates like nothing happened, as if the feeling of every one of your nerve endings being scorched at the exact same time was just an illusion and not the painful reality you’d been living less than- how long was it…? It can’t have been very long.

You feel a slight twinge somewhere in your—thinkpan? system?—and brace yourself, uselessly, for more of the same. What you get instead, to your surprise, is a message.

SB: can you read this;  
SB: if you can;  
SB: try and write something back;  
SB: but dont push yourself;

You carefully extend your consciousness in the direction of the signal, and find that it’s coming directly from a terminal in the ship’s engine room, albeit somewhat tweaked to project strings of messages directly into your text processing circuit. Which is a thing you _have_ now. Right.

You struggle for a few moments to figure out how to reply, only to find that it’s literally as easy as thinking. Sweet.

PG: >wyd  
SB: oh fuck i thought your pan got fried;  
SB: are you ok;  
PG: >ehhhhh  
SB: eh what;  
PG: >there was like  
PG: >i guess it was almost an overload?  
PG: >still here though LOLOLOL  
PG: >did we take off or something  
SB: no;  
SB: but the ship is off emergency power now;  
SB: that must have been what you felt;  
SB: can you access other stuff now?;  
SB: besides this terminal;

Come to think of it, you _do _feel a little different after the big brain drain. The circuit in which your consciousness rests seems more open, less constricting; it hums softly with life, like an undisturbed hive. You tentatively extend your mind along the circuit, and—

You’re flying.

Well, not _actually_ flying, because- as you can now tell- the ship is still very firmly sat on its gazillion-ton ass in an undersea hangar. But your mind, your thoughts, are soaring wildly from port to port, leaping from circuit to computer terminal to illumination source to camera and back in a matter of milliseconds. You can feel everything, see everything, taste everything, sharp and electric and real in a way nothing else in your life has ever been. Sensor arrays all across the hull are popping to life, flooding you with inputs on everything from humidity levels to the number of crew members to the exact concentration of gases present. With these sensors now online, you can now physically feel the contours of your new body, reveling in the awe-striking vastness of the metal behemoth your mind now rests within.

All this, and it’s yours—no, it’s _you_. And right now, you’re fucking awesome.

Your name is KUPRUM MAXLOL, and you might just be the most overpowered being in the galaxy right now.

SB: you still there;  
PG: >Y  
PG: >YEAAAHHH  
PG: >IM  
SB: ?;  
PG: >SDF;FDHFGVZXCVXCVZ;GDSDGAWER;TGLWERGADF  
SB: are you dying;  
PG: >NO  
SB: well that = good;  
PG: >IM  
PG: >I can f;eel literaly everythign  
PG: >everything  
SB: …hows that feel;  
PG: >AWESOME  
SB: ok;  
SB: well you dont look awesome from here;  
PG: >wym  
SB: your body; it looks pretty bad;

You go on and take a look through one of the security cameras in the engine room, and. Well. He’s not wrong.

It’s not gory, or anything. The cables jammed into the back of your neck, elbows, hands, and knees aren’t gushing blood or anything like that. You just look…weak. Your body hangs limply from them, reflecting none of the power you feel.

PG: >looks bad  
SB: yeah;  
PG: >i dont think its supposed to look like that?  
PG: >like  
PG: >all the manuals and schoolfeeds suggested batteries could still feel their bodies  
PG: >and would be kept relatively healthy until totally drained  
SB: yeah but this ship is old;  
SB: and besides;  
SB: the helmsman being awol and the port getting wrecked != in the og plan;  
PG: >no duh  
PG: >wonder where tf that guy went  
PG: >i wanted to ask him for tips before i swapped places with him  
SB: hopefully it wont matter soon;  
SB: the problem is that whoever designed the battery port apparently saw way too much eastern alternian animation and designed the cables to act like fucking grabber tentacles;  
SB: and i;  
SB: i have no idea how to unplug it;  
PG: >im the one who volunteered roflmao  
SB: dude;  
SB: this thing = set up to drain energy from an adult;  
SB: just turning the power back on made your body start thrashing and yelling;  
SB: idk what = going to happen to you when we actually go for takeoff;

That gives you pause. Right, yeah, you and him were supposed to mess with some settings _before_ you got all hooked up, keep it from draining all your psionic power instantly. Apparently, though, the ship had other ideas. To your knowledge, in both old and new psionically powered vessels, the preset power consumption settings can’t be changed once the battery is fully integrated; to do so would require detaching the battery first.

PG: >yeah but engineers can still regulate energy flow during flight to prevent burnout  
PG: >which is probably more work  
PG: >but its the best bet  
SB: what are you talking about;  
PG: >im pretty sure that getting me out of the battery port is gonna take waaay too much time at this pt  
PG: >gotta schedule to keep  
PG: >plus theres no guarantee itll work again after unplugging me by force  
SB: so what you = saying is;  
SB: go for takeoff anyways;  
PG: >yeah  
SB: even though itll probably kill you;  
PG: >YOU THINK I CAN DIE? LIKE THIS? LMFAOOOOO  
PG: >BUCKLE UP SCRUBS WERE GOING FOR A RIDE

* * *

Far above, hovering a few dozen meters over the stinking, sulfurous waves of the Stinging Sea, is a ship. The spacecraft is moderate in size and wholly offensive in design, heavily graffitied over with every foul word ever spoken in every color on the spectrum, among others. For what it lacked in any kind of charm, it made up for by having a defense system to rival that of an entire drone platoon, if not two or three.

The vessel’s most senior (in all respects) officer was not present, owing to his having gone to willingly attend a most controversial trial in the capital city several hundred miles below. This left one of the other high-ranked subjuggulator in charge, a rising hopeful who had recently led the (mostly) successful mass conversion of another alien species to the noble faith of the Mirthful Messiahs. Needless to say, the young subjuggulator was feeling pretty darn good about himself.

He got to feel good about himself for approximately twenty-four hours, at least, before their commander’s “mystery guest” burst out of his chambers in a burst of scorching blue and red and took over the ship in less than thirty minutes.

Ah well.

Mituna Captor, formerly the leading member of The Signless’ rebellion movement known as “The Ψiioniic”, walks the halls of his ex-moirail’s ship, occasionally waving a hand to paralyze any purpleblood soldiers he encounters, freezing them in place before they can so much as register his presence. There are a lot of them, he notes, watching another startled troll topple to the ground with a _thump._ Weird how so many clowns can manage to fit themselves into just the one ship. But perhaps that’s what puts them so in-demand for military operations- less space needed to transport them all. That, and their willingness to commit violence in order to inspire faith, he supposed.

With a flick of the wrist, the door to the ship’s bridge crumples like a piece of paper. A half-dozen purplebloods look up, alarmed, only to yelp soundlessly when their bodies are immobilized and pinned to the ceiling. _7h47 5h0uld t4k3 c4r3 0f 7h47 f0r 4 wh1l3._ He takes a moment to help himself to the nearest chair, settling into the pilot’s seat with a low groan. _Ugh._

It’s a shame his powers haven’t fully returned to him; otherwise, he could just fly out of here. The way things are, however, he doesn’t think he’d be able to hold himself up for very long. There are so many uncertainties besides, piling up steadily the more he thinks about them, threatening to crash down on his head. What if his powers don’t fully come back? Well, it’s not as though he was planning on challenging _Her_ or anything. Even without factoring the drone armies, he couldn’t beat her even when he was in his prime, and he’s _long_ past that. No, he decides, he’s not going to risk landing back in that creature’s clutches.

Which leaves him with…what? He can’t stay on the planet. An adult would stand out too much. He _could_ head somewhere far away from the cities, maybe see if any of the old hideouts were still intact… the only other option would be to go to space, where he’d be _far_ more likely to bump into the Empire’s forces than here. Granted, his expertise navigating _would_ allow him to evade their forces for quite some time, but for the present, that wasn’t an option, not with the fleet on route to Alternia.

Yes, perhaps laying low planetside and then stealing a ship when the coast was clear was the best option, he reasoned. It isn’t as though anyone would know where to look for him; he had a feeling Kurloz hadn’t told anyone of his actions, which meant only Kurloz knew where he was right now (though he wouldn’t for very much longer). The goldblood turns to the dashboard, puzzling over the controls. Which ones would—

He feels a light tug on his flight suit.

Panic floods his thinkpan; surely, he’d gotten all of them- how could one have approached without a sound? Who-

He spins around, hands crackling. The little clown from before stares up at him, eyes wide. “Honk!”

Just a grub, he reminds himself, forcing his muscles to untense. With a sigh, he considers the little troll. They don’t _seem_ like a threat, and they certainly weren’t earlier…maybe he could just convince them to leave him alone for a bit…?

He opens his mouth to speak, but a flurry of loud honks cuts hum off. The purpleblood is pulling harder on his sleeve, now, and lifts their other hand to point behind him, directly at the main viewport.

It is at this interval that Mituna realizes that a shadow has fallen over the bridge. He twists around in the chair, and sees the bright scarlet prow of the imperial flagship rising from the ocean , sheets of murky water sloughing down its sides as it steadily emerges from the depths, almost directly in front of where the subjuggulator vessel is hovering.

The psionic is completely stunned. His thoughts race as he stares at the thing that, not too long ago, was essentially his body; a small part of his mind marvels at how it seemed so much more vast from the inside, how foreign and unwelcome its garish red paint looks after centuries of blindly navigating the thing. His thoughts stutter to a halt with the dawn of two realizations.

One, the ship is _Hers_, and she very well may have found him already.

Two, how is the ship in flight if he’s not in it?

The second one is puzzling, but only for a moment. It’s been years; techgicians and revengineers may very well have found alternative energy sources, even for ancient ships as unique as HIC’s.

For a moment he considers resisting. No doubt its thermal scanners will have already seen his heat signature within the indigoblood vessel and soldiers are planning to bring him aboard; he may as well take as many of their lives down with him. A crackling aura surrounds him as a second skin, sparks pouring off him like angry, buzzing insects. He stares down the ship that now hovers fully above the water, bracing himself; he will never return to that place alive.

The flagship turns a few degrees, slowly, then silently cruises past the subjuggulator ship and off towards the mainland.

Mituna stands there a few more seconds before slumping back into the chair. _Huh?_

Well.

That’s nice?

A loud, ugly chuckle forces its way past his lips, surprising even him. Huh. Unless Empress Fishface’s forces have suddenly mastered psychological warfare- which he doubts- then Mituna Captor is in the clear.

But first, time to steer this junk heap over to the nearest church and jettison the clowns, including the little one, who is still intently watching the ship’s retreat from one of the side windows. If his memory serves, the nearest city should be…Thrashthrust? Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long to lose the unwanted cargo at the nearest steeple and then book it for the Ashfall mountains.

Hopefully.

When Mituna arrives, however (after wrangling the controls for a good chunk of time; it didn’t help that half the buttons were trick buttons that sprayed water at him, _why_ is he forever doomed to put up with clownery), when he gets to Thrashthrust, he realizes that the city was the imperial flagship’s target as well. What’s more, it appears to be in a state of high alert.

The city is dark, all the streetlamps darkened. The only source of light comes from the dozens of drones hovering over the streets, bright eyebeams scanning, searching, while the small, dark figures of trolls scramble to escape their sight. As he watches, one drone rises, struggling figure held in each hand, and flies upwards towards the massive ship casting a shadow over most of the city, only deepening the darkness in which it is steeped.

The goldblood is a little surprised to see the empire bothering with live prisoners, but decides it’s best not to dwell on it when his goal is just to get out as soon as possible. Taking advantage of the darkness, he steers the small ship downwards, all external light off, picking the nearest clown-steeple-ish shape and approaching as quietly as he can. When he’s directly above it, it’s a simple(ish) matter of psionically popping open the rear doors and floating the immobilized clowns down to the roof. The last one to go is the little one, who, to Mituna’s shock and surprise, hugs him around the neck before scampering to the open hatch and making a flying leap to land expertly on the tippy-top of the steeple. Well, that works too.

Before he leaves, he feels an odd tug that leads him to glance back at the church.

The doorway is open, and he can see a small, glowing pinprick there, like the tip of a cigarette. And, although he can’t see anything else amidst the shadows, he swears he can feel someone watching him. Someone who _knows_ him.

The psionic leaves quietly, without looking back. All his friends are dead. Anyone who knows him in this world and yet breathes is someone who wishes him harm.

* * *

Aboard the ship hovering ominously over Outglut, the new crew is ecstatic.

The plan is running far smoother than expected. Sabotaging all the other ships in the hangar had been easy; getting the stolen ship over to Outglut without crashing or overusing Kuprum’s psionic energy- just in time for the computer virus Mallek had set up to knock out the lights and communications arrays- had been far trickier. The virus only got them a 30-minute window before the lights and communications could be recovered, after which point news from the capital about the flagship being stolen would flood the airwaves and expose them to attack from imperial drones. However, they managed to somehow make it just as the lights started to flicker.

Below, a squadron of drones that had been hacked several weeks earlier combed the streets, occasionally blaring out warning messages about not staying in past curfew while surreptitiously searching for the rest of their allies.

“wwwwho are wwwwe still wwwwaiting on?”

The alien checks the list they’d scribbled down so as not to forget. Amisia’s staying, but she’s helping us get a hold of Remele since something’s kind of off with her. Boldir _should_ be rendezvousing at the church soon, which is also where Marvus, Damara, and the twins should be.

Their voice softens at the mention of the twins, who they’ve come to think of almost as younger siblings in the last couple of months. They continue, voice tightening a little as they do so.

We already dropped off Diemen back where he’s staying. I…think he’s made up his mind about that. And Fozzer…I don’t know yet. Boldir said she was going to help him, somehow, but…

In the corner of their eye, the alien sees Polypa wince at the mention of Fozzer’s name. Tegiri, sitting beside her, hesitantly reaches out and places a hand on one of her shoulders, and she leans into the touch.

The atmosphere lightens up ever-so slightly with the sound of a knocking on the hull of the ship. A hatch is opened to admit two drones, both bearing a familiar blue symbol painted on the front of their carapace-like chest armor plates. Between them are Marvus, Baizli and Barzum, Damara, Boldir, and—

Tyzias makes a choking sound.

Stelsa Seyzat makes her way down from the drone’s spiked back with characteristic poise, all of which disappears the instant she sets eyes on her former matesprit. She takes a few frantic, stumbling steps forward before slowing, tired eyes searching for something in the other’s face. Perhaps terrified of something she might see there, or, something that was once there and is there no longer.

The other tealblood does not move from her position, seated on a crate in the docking bay alongside the others. Then, without warning, she lurches to her feet, legs visibly shaking for a moment before steadying. She walks over to where the other stands, frozen.

A few words pass between them, hushed and breathless, unheard to anyone in the room other than the two of them.

The transition between the two women standing close together and them collapsing into one another’s embrace is almost seamless.

From afar, their mutual friend turns away, unable to stop the smile from spreading across their face as they look to Boldir. Was it you? Did you convince her, or…? They ask.

The oliveblood shrugs, “(i just gave her a time and location.)” she says, so nonchalantly that the alien would have fallen for it if they hadn’t known her so well. “(she made the choice.)”

And Fozzer, is he…?

“(safe, in the grand scheme of things. someone more capable than me is taking care of that.)”

What? The grand scheme of—what are you talking about?

A grimace darkens the investigator’s already-shadowed features. “(there’s someone you need to talk to. a few someones, but one in particular.)” She jerks her head towards the bored rustblood preteen leaning against a nearby wall, and who Galekh seems to be trying to reprimand for smoking on a spaceship.

Ohh, is this about that mystery thing you and Marvus were investigating?

“yeah-P” concurs the clown in question, appearing from seemingly nowhere to rest one elbow lightly on the alien’s head. “u better sit urself down 4 this one.”

I’m already sitting.

“sit harder”

Y—

“(you heard the man.)”

YOU TOO????

The alien looks frantically from one comically serious face to the other, searching for some sign of reason or logic.

So do I like, sit cross-legged, or…??

“Did you tell them the timeline is collapsing?” demands Damara, walking up to the group.

The alien falls sideways off the crate and onto the floor.


End file.
